


no one is watching (but you have to leap)

by sheisraging



Series: even the landscape resembles you [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Smut, Fix-It, Fluff, Light Angst, Longing, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, lots of long distance phone calls, some long distance phone sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2020-12-16 00:43:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 71,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21027449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheisraging/pseuds/sheisraging
Summary: Elio closes his eyes and hisses a quiet breath out through his teeth. He thinks about how often he’s heard his own name called, shouted, moaned, whispered. About how different it sounds from the lips of someone who’s known you completely, inside and out. It’s been six years since he’s heard that voice, heard his name said that way. He wishes he’d been able to prepare.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when I posted [Kol Nidre](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16092059) over a year ago and said I was working on a bigger story that lived in the same universe? Well, this is it. Hope everyone's big into lots of domestic nonsense. Apologies in advance.
> 
> Rating will be updated with later chapters.
> 
> This story is completed and will be posted chapter by chapter over the next few weeks.

The villa is somehow more and less quiet than he’d expected it to be this winter. Elio’s not terribly surprised when friends and guests drop in unannounced, though he’s always a bit puzzled when they decide to stay after he’s explained that his parents are spending holidays in Paris. Still, he plays host as best he can, knowing his parents would expect nothing less. He’s endlessly grateful to Mafalda, who dutifully cooks and serves every meal, refills the glasses, clears the table, empties his overflowing ashtrays. He’d never manage a single dinner guest without her, so he grins and bears it when she pesters him about eating well, sleeping more, smoking less, getting fresh air—the kinds of things he otherwise hasn’t been paying much mind to. 

It’s been a while since he’s been home for the holidays, and he’d almost forgotten how different it is here when it’s truly cold, when delicate strands of Christmas lights adorn the small town square, when snow dusts the roads and fills the window frames. It’s a completely different kind of beautiful than it is in the heat of summer. Winter has no bike rides, no bathing suits, no blushing fruit in the orchard. Winter’s beauty does what summer's won’t allow—it lets him pretend to forget. The day he’d arrived, he’d stripped the yellow sheets that Mafalda had put on his mattress and buried them at the bottom of his closet, hastily remade the bed and said nothing when she frowned at him the next morning. He couldn't tell her that six years later, he still can’t sleep on those sheets without having to remember. Pretending isn’t a constant. He doesn’t do these kinds of things when he’s at home in New York, surrounded by friends, and school and his music. He doesn’t have to. But here the echo is always so loud. He supposes it always will be.

Marzia and her family arrived earlier in the week and will likely stay through Christmas, if not the New Year. She comes by nearly every day and often makes the impromptu dinner parties more bearable. She’s yet another person that Elio is endlessly thankful for. Most visitors seem to realize that he’s not quite up to hosting guests into the early morning hours, the way his parents often do. It’s hard to tell if they’re being polite or pitying when they take their leave shortly after coffee, but he appreciates it, regardless, when he’s left to spend the evening on his own. 

Tonight’s guests, a pair of married professors, are former colleagues of his father. They’d arrived with small trinkets in celebration of the first night of Chanukah—something Elio hadn’t remembered until Mafalda had put the Menorah out that morning. Marzia had dropped in just before dinner was being served, and was, of course, invited to stay. They’d lit the candles together, shared the latkes Mafalda had prepared. The conversation flowed easily, with the couple sharing fun anecdotes from their travels, from their years working with his dad, and Elio found himself enjoying the night more than most. Like clockwork, however, once the dessert had been cleared, the guests had donned their gentle smiles and risen from the table. 

More than once, Marzia has commented on people taking advantage, coming by for a meal and rushing off as soon as they’ve been served. Elio snorts when he catches her side-eyeing the couple as they make their way to the door. 

“It’s rude,” she tells him once they’ve gone. 

“It’s not rude,” Elio shakes his head. “They’re all coming to see my parents, not me. It’d be strange if they stuck around afterward,” he shrugs. “And I’d prefer to be alone, really.”

“To do what?” Marzia asks, as Elio begins casually shooing her toward the door.

Elio thinks about his noisy apartment, about booked practice rooms and looming deadlines. Semesters of getting everything right and then letting this one thing slip through his fingers. “To do what I came here for,” he sighs. 

She rests her hands on her hips and stares at him until he throws his hands up in frustration. “What? _What?_” Elio groans. “What did I do?”

“Nothing!” Marzia laughs, reaching out to shove his shoulder. “But tell me what have you come here to do? Brood? Mope around by yourself in a dark house? You could have stayed in New York and done this.”

“That’s not—” Elio pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been working—practicing. I have an important performance when I go back to New York and I need to be prepared for it,” he mutters. _It’s my last chance to get it right,_ he doesn’t tell her. He doesn’t tell anyone. 

“You haven’t mentioned any performances for next semester,” she points out. “I thought you said you dropped them all.”

Elio opens his mouth, closes it again. “This is different,” he holds up a hand when she starts to interrupt. “And I don’t want to talk about it yet. It’s just—it’s really important to me. And it’s a lot of work, Marzia. I needed some time away from distractions.” 

As soon as the word leaves his mouth, he knows that he shouldn’t have said it. 

Marzia tilts her head, her eyes widening for a moment before the slightest gasp. “Elio, tell me!”

“No!” He half laughs, wrapping a quick arm around her waist when she starts moving back into the house. 

“Yes! Yes, you must tell me all about these _distractions_ of yours,” she laughs, trying to unwind his hands. 

They push-pull each other up and down the hall, mock fighting and laughing until the slide of Mafalda’s slippers forces them apart. They straighten up just in time to be properly admonished for being childish. Elio apologizes profusely, while Marzia tucks her hands behind her back and giggles into her shoulder. Mafalda waves them off with a series of grumbled curses and shuffles back into the kitchen to finish cleaning up. 

“You’ve gotten me into trouble,” Elio grins. “Time for you to go home now.”

Marzia gapes at him.

“I have to be polite to her, I don’t have to be polite to you,” he says with a shrug.

“I’m going to tell your parents,” Marzia points at him. 

Elio pretends to think on it for a moment and shrugs again. “Okay,” he steers her toward the door. “You call my parents during their holiday to tell them I was impolite and made you go home so that I could practice my music.”

Marzia deflates, brings her hand to his cheek. “Elio, please, I just want to know you’re all right.” 

Elio leans into the warmth of her palm for a moment. He nods, pulls her hand away, kissing it softly and letting go. 

“I’m all right,” he smiles. “Promise.” 

—————

Elio’s late night routine has been the same since the evening he arrived. The smack of kisses on his cheeks as guests depart, the clatter of dishes being cleared from the table, the slide of Mafalda’s slippers on the kitchen floor. Elio retreats to the piano, so absorbed in perfecting his performance, that he often misses Mafalda peeking her head in to say goodnight. 

Tonight is no different. Once Marzia is out the door, Elio sweeps into the kitchen for a glass of water. He plants a kiss on Mafalda’s cheek and thanks her, spinning back out of the room as she shakes her head. He settles on the piano stool, lights a cigarette, and flips his music notebook to the first page of his composition. The book helps keep him honest, makes sure he’s not making any unexpected changes. He allows himself to play through it twice per night with the book open. Sometimes he’ll just listen to the metronome, imagine the music in his head, gently pluck his fingers through the air. He’ll ultimately have to play the piece from memory, so he tries to rely on helpers as infrequently as possible. He loses track of how much time passes. It happens often lately—running through the same measures over and over again until he can play through without stopping to check himself, without missing a beat. 

It’s half past midnight when a shrill ringing breaks his concentration. Elio drops his hands flat to the keys and slumps over, pressing his forehead to the lip of the fallboard. The phone rings again. He frowns at his watch, but figures it must be his parents checking in after a late dinner. 

He reluctantly pushes away from the piano and grabs the receiver on the third ring, “Pronto.”

There’s a soft exhale on the other end of the line and then, “Elio?”

Elio closes his eyes and hisses a quiet breath out through his teeth. He thinks about how often he’s heard his own name called, shouted, moaned, whispered. About how different it sounds from the lips of someone who’s known you completely, inside and out. It’s been six years since he’s heard that voice, heard his name said that way. He wishes he’d been able to prepare. “Oliver,” he says, and it comes out too rough. He realizes that it could have been six minutes, six years, six decades—what is time when part of yourself only ever stands still. There was never any way to prepare.

“I’m—it’s—” Oliver starts, stops, starts again. “I call your parents about this time every year,” a nervous chuckle. “It’s become something of a funny tradition.”

Elio nods, because he knows. For the first few years, his parents would ask if he’d like to say hello and he’d decline, out of the room before he could hear about Oliver’s work, Oliver’s wife, Oliver’s family, and Oliver_OliverOliver_. He’d taken his father’s advice that summer, allowed himself the pain of heartbreak, but after the engagement, he’d decided one could only hold on to so much before it broke them. He’d shed his tears and tried to move forward. Whether or not they agreed, his parents at least seemed to understand and respect Elio’s decision not to know about Oliver’s life. 

“Are you—I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, it’s—” Elio starts to shake his head and stops, he can’t keep gesturing to someone who can’t see him. “I was awake. Practicing, actually. My parents are spending the holiday in Paris, though, so looks like they’re breaking with tradition this year.”

“I see,” Oliver says. Elio can picture the crease between his brows when he frowns. “Wait, so they’re in Paris and you’re in Italy? By yourself?”

There’s an incredulity in his tone that forces a laugh from Elio’s chest. “I’m hardly alone,” he waivers briefly with how much of himself to give away. “You know how it is here.” 

“I remember,” Oliver’s voice comes low and quiet. “Seems a shame, though, not to be with family for the holidays.”

“I’m managing,” Elio replies, evenly. “And speaking of family, I don’t want to keep you from yours. Is there a message you’d like to leave for my parents?”

The line is quiet for a beat or two before Oliver speaks again. “My family,” he sounds confused in a way that Elio can’t decipher.

Elio begins to shrug and then remembers himself. “Wife, kids—I’m sorry I haven’t learned names, school has kept me busy,” he tumbles out. “I’m sure my parents would ask me to wish everyone a happy Chanukah on their behalf.”

“Elio—”

“I should really get back to my practice,” Elio cuts in before he’s offered more information than he wants. “I have a lot of work when I get back to New York, so—”

Oliver sighs audibly. “Right, of course. Sorry to have kept you.”

“It’s fine,” Elio offers, annoyed with himself for feeling guilty. For feeling anything. “Goodnight, Oliver.”

“Elio.”

“Hmm?”

“It was good to hear your voice,” Oliver says, simply. “I’ve _missed_ you,” he stresses the word in a way that makes Elio want.

“You, too,” is all Elio can manage without thinking too much about the implications. He sets the receiver back on the cradle and stares at the phone, willing it to ring again. He drops down onto the sofa and slumps forward, dragging his hand roughly through his hair. “Fuck.” 

—————

Oliver’s hand lingers over the phone. Every time he’s called, it’s been with a mix of hope and resignation, though the ratio has shifted vastly over the years. Hope has been a mere glimmer, quickly sparking out as the first digit is pressed, resignation fully set in by the time the line connects. 

That first Spring, he’d called for Passover and Samuel had told him, in the kindest way possible, that Elio was trying to move on, knowing Oliver had already done the same. Oliver had nodded quietly against the receiver, agreed that was best. He’d still hoped things would change. That perhaps they could at least speak, if nothing else. Of course, nothing else. 

It had been easy, at first. Because how could it not be easy to avoid someone, on another continent, who refuses to speak to you? But then Samuel had called him at Rosh Hashanah—_Happy New Year!_ and _How have you been?_ and _When is the wedding?_ and _Yes, Elio is doing well. He’s in New York now. At Juilliard._

It’d taken less than two weeks for him to slip. Just one moment, one turn, one rash decision. Oliver thinks of his past self, the _What harm could it do?_ mindset, as he’d strolled through the entryway and up to the ticketing office. His casual smile as he’d asked the desk clerk for the schedule of upcoming student performances. 

When he’d called at Chanukah that winter, he’d still had hope. There was Elio’s voice in the background, and for a breathless moment he’d thought perhaps he’d be able to tell him—_I was there. You were wonderful. Please, talk to me._ He would have been happy with only that. But instead, and from then on, it was always _Elio’s out right now. Elio can’t get to the phone right now. Elio spending the holidays with friends. ElioElioElio._ Eventually, Oliver stopped asking. Settled for the murmur of his voice in the background—a mix of three languages in that soft-slurry tone, a peal of laughter bringing vivid images to his mind. 

He couldn’t bring himself to tell the Perlmans about the wedding. Couldn’t figure out how explain to his mentor that he’d had a life altering epiphany in the middle of a student recital. His son’s recital. In the end, he’d told them almost in passing. _Things fall apart,_ he’d said. _It wasn’t meant to be._ It seemed almost more upsetting news for Samuel and Annella to hear than it was for Oliver to tell. 

It’s been years since then. Oliver’s never mentioned Elio’s recital. Not that first one. Not any of the performances after it. 

—————

The phone rings again just after midnight the next evening. Elio takes a long drag from his cigarette and wonders how many rings Oliver will allow before he gives up. How many rings his own willpower be able to sustain.

The latter answer is four. 

“Pronto.” 

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” Oliver says by way of greeting. “I was worried last night was a fluke.”

“Why?” Elio asks. “Are you going to make this a habit?” 

“No,” Oliver chuckles softly. “Maybe. Would you want me to?”

“No,” Elio bites his lip, hopes Oliver can’t hear the smirk in his voice. “Maybe.” They’re already flirting. He marvels at how unavoidable it is.

“I can hang up if you like.”

“Why did you call?” 

“I told you last night,” Oliver mutters. “It’s been almost six years, you realize.”

Elio realizes. He could calculate, down to the exact second, how long it’s been. Instead he snorts. “And you miss me?”

“Is that so difficult to believe?”

“That’s not the difficult part.” Elio instantly regrets the sharp tone of his voice. “Shit. I—”

“No, Elio, I should—” Oliver punches out a frustrated breath. “I’m not married,” he spills out in a rush. The moment it’s out, he wonders if he should have left things alone. It’s fair, for Elio to know this, and to hear it from him—but he also knows where this road leads. All his best intentions out the proverbial window. It seems like an eternity passes before Elio speaks.

“So, you’re what—divorced, then?” he asks and immediately winces. “I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me. I didn’t know, Oliver.” 

“I never got married,” Oliver admits, quietly. It feels like a weight has been lifted, though somehow he’d not been ready for its departure.

It takes a few seconds for the words to settle in Elio’s mind. He can hear his blood pounding in his ears and realizes his heart is racing. His cigarette has turned mostly to ash, forgotten as held between his fingers. He lets it drop into an ashtray and slumps onto the sofa, pitching forward to rest his elbows on his knees. 

“Are you still there?” Oliver presses the receiver to his ear, thinks he might hear Elio’s muffled breathing. “Elio?”

“You were engaged.” Elio states. A fact, not a question, because this was why he had to stop six years ago. Why he didn’t say ‘hello’ whenever Oliver called to catch up with his parents. Why he’d declined to hear anything about what was going on with Oliver’s life back in the states. Why he’d locked what they’d shared that summer into a tiny, sacred place in his heart and then virtually extracted everything else about Oliver from his life. Oliver was getting married—Oliver got married. And Elio had to move on. 

“I was,” Oliver says. “We called it off.”

“How long after we spoke?” Elio manages. 

Oliver closes his eyes, still fears that this was a mistake. Wonders if it would be any easier if they were in the same room. “A few months,” he says. “It was in the fall.”

Elio nods, rubs at the tears burning the corners of his eyes. “Do my parents know?” 

“They do.” 

“They never said anything.”

“Fuck,” Oliver breathes out, frustrated with himself. “I don’t want to do this over the phone,” he mutters. 

“You must have told them over the phone,” Elio replies, hating the bitterness in his voice.

Oliver sighs. “That’s different and you know it.”

“I asked them not to tell me about you,” Elio admits, softly. “I wanted you to be happy. I still do. Always. But after you told me, I just—”

“I know,” Oliver tells him. “Your father implied as much when he and I spoke. Elio, you mustn’t be upset with him—with either of them—for keeping it from you. I knew, at least to some extent, what you’d asked of them and by the time they knew, you were away at school. I’d already—I didn’t want to ruin—”

“Stop,” it comes out louder than Elio intended.

“No, it’s—”

“Oliver,” Elio pleads. “It’s not as though we ever saw one another. And we don’t… we can’t change it.”

Oliver closes his eyes, swallows. “No, we didn’t. We can’t.” 

“So, let’s not waste time blaming ourselves.”

“I’ve missed you,” Oliver says. “More than—” he sighs and Elio holds his breath. “I’ve missed you, Elio. Very much.”

“I’ll be back in New York after the New Year.” 

“Okay,” Oliver nods. “Maybe we can… have dinner,” he says and they both laugh at the suggestion. 

“I suppose it wouldn’t be unheard of,” Elio muses.

Oliver hums in agreement. “I’d like to call you again, if you don’t mind,” he says. “At a more amenable hour, of course, but I’d like to.”

Elio bites his lip, smiling. “I don’t mind. The late hours are better, honestly. I have dinner drudgery to contend with most evenings.”

“You’re hosting those now?” Oliver asks, amused. 

Elio makes a noise that would sound pitiful if Oliver didn’t find it so endearing. “People keep showing up!” he exclaims. “I can’t just turn them away, my parents would be mortified.”

At that, Oliver chuckles. “You’re not cooking for them, are you?”

“No,” Elio snorts. “Perhaps if I were, they’d stop showing up.”

“At least it’s free entertainment,” Oliver suggests. “As I recall, there’s not much going on in the winter.”

Elio hums. “Some of my friends have been in town on school break, too. Marzia comes to dinner sometimes. But no, there’s not much else to do. I came home to focus on a project. Though, if I didn’t have the dinners, I might work on my music at normal hours and actually get some sleep.”

“Would you?”

Elio expels something between a laugh and a snort. “No.” 

A quiet moment stretches between them. Elio wonders at how comfortable it is, despite the years and the circumstance. He lights another cigarette and blows out a perfect ring of smoke, a trick learned from his first girlfriend in New York. He wonders if Oliver can do it, too. “What are you doing for the holidays?” he asks.

“Well,” Oliver lets himself sink lower into his sofa cushions and kicks his legs up onto the coffee table. “I have some papers that still need to be graded from the end of the semester, so I’ve been working my way through those. Slow going.”

“Any interesting topics?”

“A few, sure, but also several extremely pretentious philosophical diatribes that deviate very far from their original theses.” 

“So, obvious teacher’s pets,” Elio teases, pulling a quiet chuckle from Oliver. “Tell me about your classes.”

“What would you like to know?” Oliver asks.

“Anything,” Elio says quickly. “Everything.”

“Only everything, huh?”

Elio smiles into the receiver. “Do your students address you as ‘professor’ or do you allow them to call you ‘Oliver’?”

Oliver huffs softly. “On the first day of classes, I introduce myself with my title and full name, but after that, they refer to me by ‘professor’.”

Elio hums, pictures Oliver at the front of a lecture hall, hair combed neatly away from his face. A knowing grin, a glint of excitement in his eyes. 

“You never asked about my classes when I was in Italy,” Oliver says, curious.

“It wasn’t top of mind, I suppose,” Elio bites his lip. Considers things before he goes on. “I wanted to know you and everything immediate about you at that moment in time. Your life away from us never seemed real to me. It should have, but—” he stops short of an emotional ride he’s not ready for tonight.

“I understand,” Oliver mutters. “I felt much the same about my own life at the time.”

“I want to know. Now,” Elio goes on. “I want to… what classes are you teaching? What’s your favorite spot in Manhattan? What’s your apartment like? What time do you get up in the morning? What color is your toothbrush? Just tell me anything. Everything. I just want to listen.”

Oliver laughs. “My toothbrush?”

“Yes,” Elio laughs, as well. “Yes, just. Tell me.”

“Okay, okay” Oliver quiets. “I think my toothbrush is green. I’ll double check and let you know for sure.”

“Thank you,” Elio whispers. 

“I still live up near Columbia, but I’m in a brownstone now,” Oliver continues with a soft chuckle. “I lucked out, actually. I have two floors to myself.”

“Two floors? In New York City?” Elio asks, surprised. “How’d you manage that?”

“It’s part of a faculty housing thing. There’s an elderly man on the ground floor, a retired professor,” Oliver explains. “He spends most of the year down in Florida. I take care of things while he’s away — bring in his mail, let the exterminator in, make sure the pipes don’t freeze during the winter, shovel the walk when it snows, you know, that kind of thing.”

Elio smiles at the thought of Oliver, bundled in winter layers, nose red with cold, the dust of snow in his hair. 

“Are you still there?” Oliver asks. 

“Yeah, sorry, I— you said snow and I just—” Elio huffs. “It’s hard to picture you with so much clothing on.”

Oliver laughs, loud and full at Elio’s admission. “I doubt I’d survive the winter in whatever you picture me in.”

Elio smirks. “Is that so?”

“It is,” Oliver says, a wry grin playing at his lips. “In Manhattan, I like the Met—just before closing, when the galleries start to empty and everything gets kind of quiet. Sometimes I’ll head down there after class and walk around until the guards start asking everyone to leave.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been there when it’s quiet,” Elio murmurs. 

“It’s nice,” Oliver’s voice is soft. “Maybe we’ll go sometime.”

Elio smiles. “Before dinner,” he offers. 

Oliver nods, feels a bloom of warmth in his chest. “It’s a date.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BFFs, late nights, and long distance phone calls continue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten used to posting Sunday Sixes, so I'll probably be posting new chapters on Sundays to fill that void.

“Hey,” Elio swats at Marzia’s attempt to steal his cigarette. “Get your own.”

“You smoke too much. Share.” 

She reaches again and this time Elio lets her take it. Empty-handed, he stretches, folding his arms up behind his head and arching his back, then slumping forward into an impressive yawn. 

Marzia looks him over. “Do you sleep at all anymore?”

“You sound like Mafalda.” Elio takes the cigarette back from her. “You know I’m usually up late.”

“Hmmn,” she tilts her head. “When I was in the kitchen earlier, she was fretting about finding you asleep on the sofa next to the phone.”

“Ah,” Elio nods. “So that’s where you’re headed.”

“You’re not going to tell me?”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “Tell you what?”

“Elio,” she shoves him. “First you have mysterious _‘distractions’_ and now secret, late-night phone calls. What’s going on with you?”

He laughs, “I think the more important question is: Why are you gossiping with Mafalda?”

“Come on, be serious,” she insists. “You know that I worry.”

Elio leans his head back on the sofa and sighs heavily. “There are no mysterious distractions, Marzia,” he relents. “You know I haven’t had many serious relationships in New York.”

“That’s because you don’t try,” she mutters, taking the cigarette back. 

“That’s not true— I try. I’ve tried. It’s just—” Elio shrugs, frustrated. “It’s never felt— it’s always fun. I’m enjoying myself. I’ve _liked_ the people I’ve been involved with, but nothing deeper than that.” He chuckles, “It probably doesn’t help that I wind up in direct competition with a lot of them. That kind of thing is not a great relationship builder.” 

“I suppose that’s not terrible,” Marzia frowns. “If you’re not unhappy about it. Does it bother you?”

Elio chews at the inside of his cheek for a few seconds. “No, it doesn’t.”

“So what distractions where you running away from then?”

“I wasn’t running away,” he shakes his head. “It’s just too easy there, to fall into something fun and… shallow, I guess. I get distracted from the things I should be paying attention to. That’s what I meant when I said it. I felt like I needed to be somewhere quiet and unhurried, so I can focus for a little while. Maybe get a different kind of inspiration.”

She cocks a brow at him. “Are you saying there are no shallow people for you to fall into bed with in this town?”

Elio guffaws at that. “They weren’t shallow people,” he manages. “Just shallow situations.” He reaches for the cigarette and takes a drag. “Besides, you know what I mean,” he rolls his head to the side to look at her. “About being here.”

Marzia studies his face for a moment. “I know,” she nods, nudges her shoulder into his. “So tell me about your project, then.”

“Mm, no,” Elio mumbles around the cigarette. He shakes his head. “Sorry!” he grins, chuckling a bit when her mouth falls open. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to jinx it. I’ll tell you about it soon, I promise,” he rolls his eyes to the ceiling, counting on his fingers while she watches him. “Maybe not very soon, but eventually. Maybe.”

“Elio!” she yells, but there’s no anger in her tone, only surprise. 

He shakes his head again. “I can tell you something else though,” he offers. Something likely to shock her more than anything he could have told her about his music. 

“I’m listening,” she waves for him to continue. 

Elio nods, passes the cigarette back to her. He chews at his lip for a few seconds. “I spoke to Oliver last night.”

Marzia manages to gasp a stunned, “What?” before dissolving into a coughing fit. 

"Okay?" Elio asks with a wry grin. He takes the cigarette from her fingers and stubs it out in the ashtray on the coffee table. "Do you need me to get you some water?"

"Fine," she flails her hand out, then places it on her chest and takes a deep breath. "I'm fine," she coughs.

Elio rubs her back, waits for her to breathe easy.

“How?” she finally asks, massaging the base of her throat as she slumps beside him.

“He calls my parents every year at Chanukah — usually late at night for them, when it’s still first night for him. I guess he must have done it once without thinking and now it’s a kind of running joke. He didn’t know they’d be out of town this year.” Elio shrugs. “I knew they had this tradition, but it’s been so long. It was late and I was practicing, so I answered the first time he called, and—”

"The first time?" Marzia interrupts. “You’ve spoken more than once?"

Elio wrinkles his nose and holds up two fingers.

Marzia gasps. “And you didn't tell me!" she crows, launching herself at him, fingers pinching at his ribs. 

"St-Stop!" he laughs, helplessly batting her hands away. "I'll tell you! I'll tell you now!"

She relents, shoving hard at his shoulder as she pulls away. Elio huffs and flops over, resting his head in Marzia's lap. She rolls her eyes and smiles fondly at him. “So, talk,” she says, lighting a new cigarette and inhaling deeply.

Elio gestures for her to hand the cigarette to him and she grins, eyebrows lifting as she holds it out of reach. Elio lets his hands drop, pouting up at her. He tilts his head and parts his lips. Marzia giggles, slips the filter into his mouth and holds it while he inhales. 

“I’m not going to baby you,” she warns, even as she cards fingers through his hair. “We’re too old for that now.” 

When she lifts the cigarette from his lips, Elio turns his head and exhales a plume of smoke. “Marzia,” he says quietly. “He never got married.”

Marzia’s hand stills, but Elio doesn’t say anything more. She tugs at his hair until he turns to look at her again. “He told you that?”

Elio swallows, nods. “Called off the engagement a few months before the wedding.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“No.”

“But nobody told you.”

“No.” Elio swallows. “I’d stopped speaking to him,” he adds. “Asked my parents not to speak to me _about_ him. Six years. I’ve been in New York. He’s been so close, it’s— we could’ve been—”

“Elio,” she whispers. “No.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, pouting at her. 

“I mean: No,” she repeats. “You were devastated after he left, even more so after he told you about his engagement,” she combs through his hair. “You had to protect your heart. We all have our ways.”

Elio rolls onto his side, presses his face against her belly and nuzzles into it until she giggles. 

“Stop it,” she laughs, huffs out a puff of smoke just above his face and pushes at his head. 

He settles, exhales, leans away. “Did you do the same with me?” he asks quietly. 

“In some ways, perhaps,” Marzia offers. “But it wasn’t the same. I wasn’t in love with you. Not really.”

Elio nods, links their hands together and kisses her palm. “I’m sorry anyway,” he mutters against her skin. 

“I know you are. And it’s past,” she smiles, shoving gently at his cheek. “We’re well beyond that now.”

Elio cups her hand to his mouth and kisses it once more. 

“Tell me more about Oliver,” she says. “What else did you talk about?”

“His classes,” Elio shrugs. “Students, work, school.”

Marzia wrinkles her nose. “Is that all?” she asks. “How about whether or not you’re both single and still obsessed with one another?”

He reaches up and palms her face. “Shhhhush, you,” he says. 

Marzia pokes her tongue against his skin until Elio drops his hand, laughing. She peers down at him. “Am I wrong?”

Elio chews at the inside of his cheek. “No,” he says after a moment. “We didn’t really talk about it. Just kind of… around it.”

“Around it,” Marzia repeats, slips the cigarette between Elio’s lips again. 

“Mmm,” Elio nods, inhales. “He suggested we meet for dinner when I’m back in New York.”

“What did you tell him?”

Elio turns his head, blows smoke out into the room, “I didn’t say no.”

Marzia stares at him, waiting for more. When Elio continues puffing on the cigarette, saying nothing, Marzia groans. She pinches at his sides again, the fail-safe ticklish spots she’s known since childhood. “Elio,” she laughs. “Stop being so vague! Tell me more!”

“Stop!” he coughs out, grabbing at her wrists. “There’s not much more to tell, I promise,” he gasps. 

She looks at him doubtingly, hands stilled and clasped in his. 

“I promise,” Elio says again. “We just talked.” He shrugs, “Maybe we’ll go on a date when I get back. Dinner and a museum,” he offers her a tiny smile. “I guess we’ll see.”

Marzia smooths a hand over his cheek, rests her palm over his heart. “Just take care here, okay?”

Elio smiles at her. “Okay.”

—————

Marzia leaves after eleven that evening. Elio ambles slowly from room to room, picking up glasses, emptying ashtrays, turning out lights. He avoids looking at clocks, tries not to countdown to midnight, to half-past, to whether or not Oliver will call again. They hadn’t really talked about when they’d speak next, and it hadn’t occurred to Elio until the next morning that he should have asked. But then, would it have been too much? It couldn’t be, really — Oliver’s been the one to initiate all of this, after all. He couldn’t fault Elio for wanting to know. 

He finishes cleaning up and finds himself standing in front of the piano. He should practice; The work that’s waiting for him back in New York, the possible outcome of the decisions he made before winter recess, all mean that spring is going to be more than just his regular brand of exhausting. Elio tumbles his fingers over the keys, a quick scale echoing loud in the quiet room. He’s tired, though. For all Marzia’s teasing and Mafalda’s fussing, they’re not wrong about his lack of sleep. 

Elio sighs, runs his hand along the fallboard and tips it down, gently, over the keys. He looks across the room and his eyes land on the small, blinking numbers of a digital clock, a VCR his father had put in recently. It’s midnight. Elio bites his lip, fidgets in place and finally goes down the hall to his father’s office and takes the new cordless phone from its charge. He turns out the rest of the lights and goes upstairs to his bedroom, careful not to let the door slam behind him. 

He strips out of his clothes and tugs on a loose pair of pajama pants and a long sleeve tee shirt. He dumps all his dirty clothes into the hamper and shuffles into the bathroom. He pees with the door open and stands in the doorway after he’s flushed, stays there until the sound dies out and he’s sure he’ll hear the phone if it rings. He brushes his teeth, runs the water sparingly, low pressure, low noise. He leans away from the sink and peers out into his room. 

“Stop it,” he mutters, turning and catching his reflection in the mirror. “You’re being ridiculous.”

He rinses his mouth, dries his hands and turns out the light. Elio climbs into bed, the two twins pushed together as they’d been since that summer. He sets the phone down on the mattress across from him and looks over at the clock on his desk. Quarter after midnight. 

He turns out the light and tugs a bit at his pillow, curls his arm under it and settles on his side, watches the flutter of leaves at his window. He hasn’t felt this way, experienced the ache of this particular longing, in some time. He feels seventeen all over again, and can’t decide whether or not it’s a welcome feeling. There was a certainty, he thinks, in his talk with Oliver. It doesn’t seem possible that they could ever return to the kind of push-pull relationship they’d had in the very beginning. Those questions were answered a long time ago. 

Elio reaches out and presses one of the soft rubber digits on the phone, bites the inside of his cheek when he hears it beep, proves to himself that it’s still charged. He rolls his eyes, shakes his head, mutters, “Stop, stop, stop—” and jolts back when the phone rings. He stares for a moment, hears the shrill ringing of the corded units echoing from the rooms downstairs, watches the red digital blink of lights in front of him. He rolls forward, grinning into his pillow and grabs the phone, presses the talk button.

“Hello,” he smiles against the receiver. 

“Hi,” Oliver’s greeting comes across the line like a breath of laughter. It only makes Elio smile wider. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Elio chuckles softly. “I’m glad you called.”

“I know you said later is better, but I still feel like I should apologize for disturbing someone. I usually only call this late the one time.” 

“Nope,” Elio lets his lips pop loudly as the word leaves his mouth. “Everyone’s gone home. Mom and dad are still away. And you’re not disturbing me.”

“What are you up to, now that everyone’s gone home and you have the house to yourself?” Oliver laughs, a quiet rumble that Elio wishes he could feel. He slides his palm across the mattress, splays his fingers over the cold space where Oliver slept beside him years ago. 

“Nothing,” Elio murmurs. “Just got into bed. People keep telling me I don’t sleep enough, but every time I try going to bed early, I just wind up lying here thinking.”

“What about?”

“Lately?” Elio shrugs, sighs heavily, and rolls onto his back. “School, practice, everything I need to do when I get back. The PhD application process. The daunting reality of being a self-sustaining adult in the music industry.”

“Oh, just that?” Oliver laughs, a bit louder this time. 

“Just that,” Elio grins. “Tell me about your day.”

Oliver puffs out a breath. “Hmm. I don’t think I did anything particularly interesting—”

“I don’t care,” Elio interrupts. “Tell me anyway. Start from the beginning.”

“Okay,” Oliver chuckles. “I woke up too early and couldn’t fall back to sleep. Oh, my toothbrush _is_ green.”

“Thank you,” the curve of Elio smile kisses the receiver. He closes his eyes.

—————

Oliver coughs lightly, voice hoarse from overuse. He realizes the other end of the line has been quiet for some time. “Elio?”

For a moment Oliver wonders if he somehow got disconnected without noticing. He considers hanging up, calling back tomorrow, when there’s a sudden and sharp intake of breath. 

“Hmm, why’d you stop?” Elio slurs. 

The memory hits him like a stone to the chest — Elio, curled toward him on their bed, heavy eyelids and a content smile. _Why’d you stop?_

“You fell asleep,” Oliver whispers, fond. “Hang up the phone. Go to bed.”

“No, s’ok,” Elio mumbles. He rubs at his eyes. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, I should probably—”

“I’m still glad you called,” Elio interrupts, voice hazy with sleep. Oliver wonders if he’ll remember this in the morning. 

“So am I,” he says quietly. “I’m going to hang up now. Make sure you do, too.”

“Yeah,” Elio murmurs. 

Oliver waits until the line disconnects before setting his receiver back in its cradle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on Tumblr @ [sheisraging.tumblr.com](http://sheisraging.tumblr.com). Come for the gifs, stay for the... gifs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver is definitely holding on to some issues. He's also still quite close with his ex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is completed and updates are posted weekly on Sundays.

On Christmas day, Mafalda and Anchise both have plans to leave after lunch and celebrate with their families. Mafalda all but begs Elio to join her, but after he’s declined for the fourth or fifth time, she relents, promising to return the next day with leftovers. 

Marzia and Elio help set the table, pulling faces and poking one another when Mafalda corrects their utensil placement. They make quiet, but pleasant conversation, laughing when Anchise jokes about some of the guests from earlier in the month. Elio’s in the middle of refilling everyone’s wine glasses when the phone rings.

Mafalda starts to get up, but Elio gestures for her to sit. “_Probabilmente è mamma,_” he waves, pushing his chair away from the table. He heads out of the dining room and into the hall for the phone, pulling up the receiver with a jovial “_Pronto!”_

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Oliver’s amused voice comes over the line. 

Elio’s grin curves instantly wider. “Hi,” he breathes. “You’re calling so early.”

“I know, but I won’t be able to call later and I didn’t want you to wait— not that I presumed you would, I just thought—”

“Thank you,” Elio smiles, fond. “I might be up a bit later— unless you don’t want to—”

“Oh, no, I do,” Oliver insists. “I have dinner plans tonight and I don’t want to keep you up. I probably won’t be home until around two your time, maybe a bit later. I’d hate to wake you if you’ve already gone to sleep.”

“That's okay,” Elio tries to mask his disappointment as he curls the phone cord around his finger and thinks _Wake me, Oliver. Your voice is better than any dream I could possibly be having. Any time is a good time._ He bites down hard on his tongue for a second before speaking again. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow,” Oliver agrees. He pauses and Elio can sense the hesitation in his voice when he continues. “I wouldn’t want you to run up your parents’ phone bill, but you can call me before you go to sleep. Leave a message if I’m not home yet, so I know that you’ve gone to bed and it’s too late to call.”

“I can do that,” Elio’s grin falters as Marzia appears in the hall, a knowing smirk on her lips. 

“Good,” Oliver replies. “I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Elio chuckles. “Have fun tonight.”

“Thank you. Good bye, Elio.”

“Bye,” Elio murmurs. He sets the phone down and looks up to find Marzia eyeing him, one brow raised in a mix of amusement and curiosity. 

“Soooooo,” she slides closer, swooping down low and hopping up beside him. “Who was that?”

Elio rolls his eyes. “Why are you asking if you already know the answer?”

Marzia tsks at him. “You know, it’s rude to abandon your guests in order to go have phone sex with your older, long distance lover.”

Elio clamps a hand over her mouth, eyes growing wide. They both laugh as he drags her down the hall and away from the dining room. 

“Oh relax,” Marzia laughs quietly when she’s swatted his hand away. “They didn’t hear me.”

“He just called to say hello,” Elio explains. “We usually talk late at night and he won’t be home later, so—”

“That’s sweet,” she smiles, soft and genuine. “I’m glad to see you happy,” she reaches out to cup his jaw and gently pat his cheek. “Just don’t forget what I said, okay?”

Elio wraps his arm around her waist, pulls her up against him and kisses her shoulder, her cheek. “I won’t,” he whispers, taking her hand and slowly dancing her back along the hallway. 

—————

“You’re giving me the look,” Oliver says with a quick laugh, a shake of his head. “Don’t give me the look. I’m too old for it now.”

Kim sighs. “I’ve lost all of my powers.”

“Not all,” Oliver smiles, reaches out and twists a lock of her hair around his finger, tugs it twice and lets it go swinging in front of her eyes. She’s let it grow longer than ever before, he notices. It looks good on her, the strawberry blonde waves spilling down her back. 

It’s her turn to laugh now, pouting her lower lip out and blowing the hair away from her face. “It never gets old, does it?”

“Nope,” he grins broadly. He raises his hand to signal the waiter. “Do you want another?”

“Please,” she nods, passing her empty glass his way. 

“Another beer for me and some more tea for the lady,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips.

“You’re mocking me,” Kim says as the waiter departs.

Oliver points to his chest. “What did I say?”

“Your _face,_” she laughs, blue eyes going wide. “_Some more tea for the lady,_” she imitates his amused baritone, the quirk of his lips. 

He tosses his head back, snorts out an inelegant laugh. “Your impression has _really_ improved,” he says, adding a small round of applause. 

They smile at each other, fond and conspiratorial, knowing looks born from years of shared understanding. 

“I just never thought I’d see the day you’d be choosing tea over booze,” he shrugs and shakes his head. 

“We were going to be married, you know,” she leans forward, brows raised at him. “Did you think I’d be boozing it up while pregnant with _your_ kid?”

Oliver pulls a face, “You really want me to answer that?”

“Oh, stop,” she waves. 

“I am happy for you, Kim,” he says. “For both of you, truly.”

She reaches for his hand, squeezes his fingers in hers. “I know you are.” She taps their joined hands against the table twice and lets go. “I also know you purposefully changed the subject and I’m not going to let you do that again. Dammit.”

Oliver snaps his fingers. “Foiled,” he smiles at her. 

“All my powers,” she shakes her head mournfully.

“There’s not much more to tell,” he says with a slight shrug. “We’ve been speaking on the phone, but he’s still in Italy for a few weeks yet. When he gets back—”

“You’ll tell him you’ve been pining for him from the moment you left him all those years ago and he’ll swoon into your arms and you’ll live happily ever after,” she beams.

“God, you sound almost as dramatic as he is,” Oliver shakes his head. He nods as the waiter returns and places their drinks on the table. 

“Ugh, I’m sorry. It’s probably the hormones. They’re making me disgusting,” she laments. “Isn’t that what you want, though?”

Oliver chuckles quietly. “Don’t apologize. It’s obviously a trait I find endearing.” He turns his glass between his hands. “It’s not that simple,” he mutters. 

“I think you’re overcomplicating things,” she says with a pointed tilt of her head. “At least from what you’ve told me,” she shrugs. “You have a tendency to do that, you know.”

Oliver’s mouth drops open in protest and Kim immediately shoves half an egg roll between his teeth. 

“I’m just saying,” she continues, carefully lifting the other half of the egg roll between her chopsticks and depositing it onto Oliver’s plate. She slants her eyes toward him when he tears the roll from his mouth and chews loudly as she speaks. “You act like you need to protect people from the fact that you love them,” she pauses, as the reality of what she’s said sits with her. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

Forcing himself to swallow, Oliver shakes his head and looks away. “No,” he says. 

Kim reaches for his chin, turns his face to hers. “You wanna try that again?” 

Oliver rolls his eyes, wraps his hands around her wrist and squeezes. He offers her smile as she pulls away. “He’s so talented,” he smiles wider. Thinks of Elio on stage last month, the month before. “You’ve no idea how good he is. I don’t want him to give anything up because he thinks I’m suddenly an option.”

Kim frowns. “Why would he have to give anything up?”

“He’s still young, Kim. Who knows where his career takes him. Or who— he could meet someone else next month,” he throws out a hand. “And he’d have tied himself to me because he—”

“Hold on, stop,” she waves at him. “First of all, I love you, but you’re an idiot, and if that sweater weren’t cashmere, I’d throw this at you,” she points her lo-mein laden chopsticks menacingly in his direction. 

“You would never.”

“Try me.” She lifts an eyebrow before continuing. “Second, and to your own point, he’s young. It’s not as though he hasn’t been living in Manhattan for the past, how many years now? Thinking you’ve been married the entire time. Do you really think he hasn’t _met_ plenty of people by now?”

“Clever use of air quotes,” Oliver mutters, rubbing at his temples. 

“Thank you,” Kim takes a sip of water and sets it down, seems to brace herself. “I swear, one day I’m going to tell your mother what I really think about her parenting skills.” 

“Please invite me to that show,” Oliver smirks over the lip of his beer glass.

“Front row seats,” she smiles, then screws her lips to the side. “Third,” she looks pointedly at Oliver until he sets his glass down and meets her eyes expectantly. “You are not a fucking anchor.”

Oliver drops his head back, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. 

“I am serious, Oliver. ‘_Tied_ himself to you’? That’s— that’s— I can’t even begin to—” Kim’s hands flail around in frustration until finally she scoops an ice cube out of her water glass and hurls it straight at his chest. 

“Hey!” Oliver goes bug-eyed, curls forward to catch the ice before it falls into his lap. He looks around to be sure none of the restaurant staff are watching them. “You don’t just throw food in a restaurant, Kim. We’re not eight years old anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, deflating against the back of her chair only to pop back up again. “Actually, I’m not. Maybe we’re not eight years old, but you’re still the same big, dumb idiot who knows his mom is _stupid_, but still listens to _everything she says_.”

Oliver stares at her and can’t help but see the grade school version of Kim staring back at him. The shine of her fiery curls after her mother had spent all morning smoothing them down. The angry blaze in her green eyes. 

“Big, dumb idiot, huh?” He smirks. 

Kim squirms in her seat, craning her neck to look for the waiter. 

Oliver looks at the scattered plates in front of them. “Do you want something else?” 

She makes a soft chuffing noise. “Will you ask the waiter for fortune cookies for me? I don’t want him to think I’m strange.”

“Why would he think you’re strange?” Oliver laughs. 

Kim wrinkles her nose. “Because I want them now instead of later.”

“Oh,” Oliver tilts his head, amused. “So he should think I’m strange?” 

“You don’t care if he thinks you’re strange,” she reasons.

Oliver snorts and waves his hand, nodding when he catches the waiter’s attention.

“Yes, sir,” the waiter answers as he approaches their table. “What can I get for you?”

“The lady would like an order of fortune cookies,” Oliver gestures at Kim, despite her wide-eyed glare. “We’re happy to have them added to the bill, if it’s any trouble.”

“Of course. No trouble at all, sir,” the waiter smiles, turning to nod at Kim before heading toward the kitchen.

“Now he definitely thinks I’m strange,” Kim mutters.

“I certainly hope so,” Oliver smirks.

The waiter returns and places a small plate, piled high with fortune cookies, on the table between them. 

“Thank you,” Kim and Oliver say in unison. 

“Enjoy,” the waiter smiles and departs again. 

Kim reaches for one of the cookies, cracking it open and tossing the fortune aside. She breaks the cookie into pieces, picks up the bowl of duck sauce they’d been using for wonton noodles earlier, and pours some of it onto her plate.

“You’re not going to read your fortune?” Oliver asks. “That’s disgusting, by the way,” he adds when Kim proceeds to dip a piece of cookie into duck sauce and eat it.

“Mm,” Kim licks sauce off her fingers. “You read it.”

“Isn’t that bad luck or something?”

Kim looks up from her plate. “Is it?”

Oliver shrugs. “Maybe I’m thinking of something else.”

“I know the one about eating the cookie first,” she says, finishing off her last piece of cookie. 

“Well, you took care of that one for me,” Oliver reaches for the fortune. “So I guess I’m in the clear.”

Kim claps her hands. “Go for it,” she grabs another cookie and cracks it into pieces, tossing the fortune aside, again.

Oliver makes a show of holding the paper up, a tiny bridge between his hands. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with one small step.”

“How wise,” Kim smirks. 

“Your turn,” Oliver nods as she breaks open another cookie. 

Kim sighs, pushing half the cookie into her mouth. She pulls the fortune out of the other half and holds up a finger as she chews. “I have to eat the whole thing or it’s bad luck,” she mumbles, shoving the rest of the cookie into her mouth. 

Oliver laughs and nudges her water glass toward her open hand. “Don’t rush, I’m not timing you. In the meantime,” Oliver reaches for the other fortune Kim had tossed aside. “I may as well.”

Kim nods, gesturing at him to read it as she takes a sip from her water.

“Excuses are easy to manufacture and hard to sell,” Oliver reads, voice going quiet toward the end.

“Interesting,” Kim murmurs, leaning back in her chair. “You should keep that.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Oliver tosses the paper on the table. “Read yours.”

“Hmm,” she picks up the last fortune and unfurls it, reading it over as a wide smile blooms on her face. “You are truly smart.” 

“It does not say that,” Oliver shakes his head.

“It _does,_” she insists, turning the fortune toward him. Oliver rolls his eyes and groans until she gathers all three of the tiny papers and sprinkles them over his hair. 

—————

Oliver fumbles his keys out of his pocket, fingers numb from the blistering December cold. He shivers, shoulders shrugged up to his chin as he hurries through the door and locks it behind him. The front hall is blessedly warm. He hangs his coat in the hall closet and slips out of his shoes. He rubs his hands together, still feeling the chill in the tips of his fingers, and makes a note to run down to Professor Werner’s apartment in the morning and make sure the heat is keeping up with the recent cold front. 

As he enters the living room, he spots the blinking red light of the answering machine. There’s a little kick in his chest, disappointment and excitement in equal measures. He’d been hoping to catch Elio awake, but had realized during dinner with Kim that it would be way too late by the time he arrived home. He knew Elio would try to wait up, and was both thrilled and guilty in that knowledge. 

That red light flashes, lets Oliver know that he won’t speak to Elio tonight, but he’ll still get to hear his voice before bed. He shuffles across the room, stands in front of the little table where the machine sits. He slides the volume dial up to max and presses play. The tape winds, machine clicking and whirring as its robotic voice recites the time of the recorded message as 9:47 p.m. The machine clicks again, tape spooling forward.

“_Hey,_” the soft slur of Elio’s voice echoes through Oliver’s living room. “_I wanted to stay awake,_” he says, words distorted by a yawn. “_‘m so tired, though._”

Oliver smiles, leans back against the arm of his sofa, closes his eyes and pictures soft brown curls peeking out beneath yellow sheets. It’s a memory, but it’ll do.

“_I guess I’m gonna fall asleep,_” Elio continues. “_And I don’t want you to feel bad if you call and wake me up,_” he sighs. “_‘Cause I wouldn’t feel bad,_” he adds quickly, words sliding together from end to end. “_I hope you had fun at dinner. I’ll call you tomorrow sometime,_” he murmurs. “_When I get up._”

Oliver snorts, knows Elio could mean virtually any hour between nine and noon, maybe later. The tape plays a bit of static noise, perhaps the sound of Elio breathing. Oliver opens his eyes, watches the machine and wonders if perhaps he forgot to hang up, but then Elio speaks again, mumbles something, definitely in French, but otherwise slurred to unintelligible. He sighs once more and the call ends.

The machine clicks-beeps-whirs, lets Oliver know that there’s no more message for him to hear. He sits with the silence for a moment, takes a breath and lets it out, slow, through his nose. He reaches forward and hits the play button again, wonders if he was always this maudlin, or if it happened, has been happening to him slowly ever since—

“_Hey—_” 

He smiles when Elio’s voice fills the room a second time. Let’s the message play through to the end, hits the button and allows himself to listen once more. After the third loop, he stands up and looks down at the machine, taps the cover gently with the pad of his index finger. Even as he flips the lid open, he’s laughing at himself, “_…not maudlin,_” Kim had once told him. “_Sentimental. There’s a difference, you know. Regardless of what your mother has led you to believe. No Offense,_” she’d smiled unapologetically and he’d laughed then, too. 

Oliver pops the cassette out of the machine. He tugs open the small drawer beneath the table and unwraps a new tape, sliding it out of its case and snapping it into the old one’s spot. He slips the tape with Elio’s message into the plastic case and brings it up to his office. He writes 9:47 p.m. in neat, black lines on the label, and tucks it away in his desk drawer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on Tumblr @ [sheisraging.tumblr.com](http://sheisraging.tumblr.com). Come for the gifs, stay for the... gifs.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver and Elio continue to catch up, but the stuff Oliver's been hanging on to is really starting to rear its ugly head. Poor guy.

A shrill sound jolts Oliver from sleep in the early hours of morning. He sits up in bed, heart racing, as he pans around the still dark corners of his room until the sound comes again. _The phone_, he realizes with amused relief. He drags a hand over his face and grabs the cordless unit off the nightstand.

“Hello,” he rasps, not bothering to clear his throat as he flops back against his pillow. There’s a short snort of laughter at the other end of the line and Oliver smiles. “Is this your revenge for all of my late night calls?”

“No,” Elio murmurs, his voice is rough at the edges. He’s just woken up as well. “I’m sorry that I woke you. I thought you’d be up, honestly. You used to go running so early in the morning.”

Oliver hums. “I still do. My alarm will go off in about five minutes,” he grins. 

“God,” Elio sighs. “It’s not even 7:00 a.m. there. And it’s freezing,” he pauses. “Stay in. Talk to me instead.”

“That does sound tempting,” Oliver mumbles. He reaches out and flicks the timer off on his alarm. “I suppose I could be persuaded,” he yawns, rolling onto his side and tugging the blanket up over his shoulders. 

Elio laughs, a quiet, breathy sound. His early morning laugh, the crust of sleep still caught in the corners of his eyes, curls a tangled mess on his head. It’s still so familiar that Oliver aches when he hears it, can see the shape of Elio’s mouth around it. 

“How was your dinner last night?” 

“Good,” Oliver breathes out, settling deeper into the mattress. “Went a little later than anticipated, but good.”

There’s a brief pause before Elio speaks again, a hint of hesitation in his tone. “Was it with friends, or—” he leaves the question open, not wanting to put the alternative option into the space between them. 

Oliver licks his lips, “I was with my ex-fiancée, who is also a friend.”

“Ahh,” is Elio’s clipped, and quiet response.

Oliver smirks, chews at the inside of his cheek. “Elio,” he snorts quietly.

“Hmm?”

“She’s married and six months pregnant. It would be like me being jealous of Marzia.”

“I’m not jealous,” Elio complains. “I just— you haven’t told me much about her, is all. I didn’t know you were still close.”

“We’ve known each other a very long time,” Oliver shrugs. “We were always better friends than we were lovers. I’ll tell you about her, about everything, when I see you. Okay? On the phone it’s just—”

“No, I— I understand. It’s better in person,” Elio agrees. “I’m glad you had fun,” he offers, and genuinely means it.

Oliver smiles. “Thank you.”

“Do you— does she—” Elio sighs, frustrated. “Never mind, it’s stupid.”  
  
“You can ask,” Oliver says.

“Does she know?”

Oliver understands that the question is many, layered into one. _Does she know: About you, me, us, summer?_ And the answer is as simple and as layered as Elio has put it to him. “She does.”

“Oh,” Elio’s voice is quiet, despite having lost some of its morning rasp. “Is that why—”

“No,” Oliver stops him before he can get the question out. “I— there were a lot of reasons.”

“Have there been others?” Elio asks, his voice still soft, as if trying to protect Oliver from his own answer. 

“There have,” Oliver admits. “Not for a long while now. I’ve been—” he snorts. “I don’t know what I’ve been.”

Elio swallows. “Have you been safe? Always?”

“Always.” Oliver answers, quickly. Sure and immediately concerned. “And you? Have you—”

“Yes, always,” Elio supplies evenly. He thinks for a moment, and then, “Why didn’t you— I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s okay, it’s just— I promise you, we can talk about it. I promise. But not over the phone, okay? Please.”

“Okay,” Elio relents. He sighs heavily and Oliver smiles at the sound. “What are your plans for today?” 

Oliver hums softly for a moment. “I’ll go for my run—”

“Make sure you bundle up,” Elio cuts in. “It’s record lows outside.”

“That’s the second time you’ve told me what the weather is like where _I_ am,” Oliver grins. 

Elio shrugs. “I saw a world news report on TV.”

“Oh? So you can tell me about the weather in Florida, too?” he teases.

“Why, are you planning a trip?” Elio pokes back.

“No,” Oliver smiles. “Just curious.” 

“I must have missed that part of the report. But—” 

“I’ll wear layers,” Oliver says.

“And a hat. And gloves.”

Oliver laughs. “And a hat and gloves.”

“Good,” Elio breathes, satisfied. “What else? After your run?” 

There’s a rustling sound, sheets moving against skin, phone, bed. Elio turning beneath the comforter. Oliver closes his eyes again. “I haven’t really gotten that far yet,” he yawns. “Winter recess makes me lazy.”

Elio smiles, walks his fingers up and down the empty span of bed beside him. 

“What about you?” Oliver asks, words slurring together slightly. Warm bed and conversation lulling him back into sleep. 

“Practice,” Elio hums. “More practice. I should also finish lesson plans for my first couple weeks back home.”

Oliver frowns. “Lesson plans?”

“Piano lessons— did I not tell you?”

“You did not,” Oliver chuckles, forces his eyes open. “But, please do.”

“I received a scholarship for school, but my parents are pretty much paying my rent. I don’t have time to work a steady job, but I also don’t want them to have to keep sending me money, so I started offering private piano lessons,” he shrugs. “I wasn’t sure it would go anywhere, but the first student I took on really worked out, and I guess the parents recommended me, so I have a handful of regulars now. It’s not a lot, but it helps.”

“Elio, that’s—” Oliver beams, imagines Elio on a piano bench, hands curled gently around chubby fingers, carefully guiding them over the keys. “Do you like it?”

“I really do,” Elio laughs. “I was worried, in the beginning, but it wound up being a lot of fun.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty great,” Elio sighs.

“So what else have you been up to? When you’re not practicing, or in class? Or giving piano lessons to the up and coming stars of tomorrow, of course.”

Elio chortles. “That’s giving me a lot of credit. I just hope they feel they’re getting their money’s worth.”

“Don’t be a goose. You’re too talented to think that way,” Oliver says. 

“I know I’m a skilled pianist,” Elio concedes. “It doesn’t necessarily mean I’m a good teacher. I’m trying my best.”

“If you’re getting recommended by parents, I’m sure you’re doing just fine.”

Elio smiles. “Yeah, I guess so,” he bites his lip. “I also pick up accompaniment gigs at bars and stuff in the Village sometimes. Nothing crazy, just small shows, usually for friends from school who are performing cabaret sets.”

Oliver’s at once delighted and devastated by this news. He’s missed so much. He attempts to laugh and the sound he emits instead is something between a gasp and a cough. 

“Are you okay?” Elio asks, concerned. 

“Yeah,” Oliver rasps. “Sorry, just something caught in my throat. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Elio says, the hesitation evident in his tone. “Oliver?”

“Hmm?”

“What happens? When I get back, I mean?” 

Oliver closes his eyes, curls up in the trap he’s set for himself. Knows it’s really the only place he wants to be, knows how scared he is of ruining it. He swallows. “I thought we were going to dinner,” he says.

Elio nods. “Right. And The Met,” he pauses and Oliver waits for the inevitable. “A date.”

“A date,” Oliver agrees, even as his blood pounds in his ears.

“Like, a real date.” Elio continues, needing clarity. “Like… you and I? Us?”

Oliver presses the flat of his fist over his heart, feels the nervous pulse flutter beneath his skin. “Yeah,” he opens his eyes and stares blindly at the ceiling. “Us.”

—————

Oliver does not go for his run. Instead, just after 8am, the moment he and Elio hang up the phone, he goes back to sleep. He sleeps until noon and then lies in bed staring at the ceiling for another hour after that. His head is a running chorus of _You and I? Us?_

It wasn’t a lie, he wasn’t trying to placate Elio with his answer. It is what he wants, _You and I. Us._ His feels the panic-tremble of his heart kick into gear whenever he lets himself think too much about it. Because there was a reason he’d stayed away. Tried to stay away. Spent six years disappearing from the darkened back rows of auditoriums and shying away from curtain calls. Now all of the _what-ifs_ he’s been carefully treading over come floating to the surface, their delicate film waiting to be popped open and spill onto the floor, taking all of Oliver with them. 

He drags himself out of bed some time in the late afternoon, when he can no longer ignore the press of his bladder. He brushes his teeth and tugs on a pair of sweatpants. While shuffling down the stairs, he remembers that he needs to check the heating in Professor Werner’s place, so he grabs the keys out of the drawer in the living room, slips on some sneakers and his jacket. He zips the jacket up to his neck and runs outside, quickly heading down to the ground floor apartment. The rooms all feel warm, but he does a cursory check around each of the small windows to make sure the draft guards are in place. Satisfied that all is well, he heads back upstairs, kicks his shoes off by the door, shoves his jacket away in the closet and replaces the keys. 

The blinds are still drawn on his windows and the mid-day light only ekes through. Oliver stands beside the sofa and feels like his limbs are filled with lead weights. The idea of accomplishing anything else today suddenly seems completely out of bounds. _This can’t be normal,_ he thinks, even as he drops to the sofa and throws an arm over his forehead. He wonders if he’s coming down with something.

There’s an incessant ringing-banging coming from somewhere he can’t quite see, fuzzy and then clearer and clearer until Oliver shakes himself and realizes it’s the front door. He must have dozed off at some point. He pulls himself off the sofa and into the hall, yanking the door open without a thought to the fact that he’s unshowered, generally unkempt, and only wearing a ratty pair of sweatpants.

“Oh…. God,” Kim’s face wrinkles as she takes him in. “Are you hungover or sick?”

Oliver drops his hand from the doorknob, waving at her to follow as he turns and walks back into his apartment. “Neither,” he mutters. “I don’t think. I don’t know.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Didn’t I see you last night? Did we have plans today?”

Kim holds up a shopping bag. “Chanukah presents, remember?”

Oliver nods. “Ah, right.”

“Oliver,” she calls, nudging the door shut with her hip and following him down the hall to the kitchen. “Seriously, are you sick? ‘Cause, I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’m more than slightly pregnant and I would prefer not to also be full of mucus.”

“I’m not sick,” he says, setting up his coffee maker. 

She drops the shopping bag on the floor by the kitchen table, pulls her gloves off and shrugs out of her coat. “You’re not dressed,” Kim says, leaning against the counter and settling a hand on her hip. 

He slants his eyes toward her. “I live here.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” she adds. “Did you forget I was coming by? Don’t answer that,” she puts a hand up before he can get a word in. “Clearly you did.”

“I didn’t forget your present,” he offers. 

“Later for that,” she waves. “What’s this about?”

Oliver drops his shoulders, rolls his eyes. “Does it need to be about something? Can’t I just—”

“You _can,_” she says. “But _you_ don’t. So something must be bothering you and you might as well just tell me what it is, because you know I’m just going to nag you until you do. Is it what we talked about last night?” she gasps. “Did you tell him? Was he upset?”

Oliver groans, slumping across the countertop and burying his face in his arms. “No, I didn’t tell him,” he mutters. “Can I have my coffee before you cross-examine me?”

Kim purses her lips, taps her fingers along the counter. Oliver stands up straight and wonders if his instant coffee maker has always been this dreadfully slow. He can feel Kim’s eyes on him and sighs.  
  
“I don’t know what I’m doing, okay? I don’t— I can’t— what if all of this has been a terrible idea?” he asks, throwing his hands out to the sides, needing an answer she can’t possibly give him. “What if all I’m doing is exactly what I’ve been—” he stops, hands pressed to his temples. 

Kim takes a deep breath. She pulls a chair out from the kitchen table and tugs at his wrist, pulling him away from the counter and nudging him to sit down. She pats his shoulder and moves past him, rummaging around in the drawers and cabinets to bring out a mug and spoon. The coffee finishes brewing and Kim fills the mug, stopping about three quarters from the top. She takes the milk from the fridge and adds just a small pour, knows the delicate balance of light and dark needed for Oliver’s perfect cup. She doesn’t add sugar, she knows that, too. 

“You don’t have to stay,” Oliver grumbles. “I’m probably not going to be very good company.”

“Shut up,” Kim says softly. She comes back to the table and places the mug down in front of him, slipping into the seat opposite his. “Drink your coffee.”

He manages a half-smile. “Thank you.”

“If you’d told me how much this was eating at you, I wouldn’t have thrown my food at your sweater,” Kim complains.

Oliver pulls a face. “No, you would have thrown the plate, instead.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Kim mutters. She waits for him to take a sip of coffee and set the mug back down before gently rapping the knuckle of her index finger against the table. “I’m going to say some things,” she regards him carefully as she speaks. “And I’m sure you’re not going to like hearing them, but I think you need to. Hopefully you know me well enough to understand that I— that it’s because I love you, and I can’t stand to see you so unhappy.”

“I’m not—”

“You _are,_ Oliver. The last time I saw you like this was when you came home from Italy. It’s not a coincidence, only this time, it’s wholly unnecessary.”

Oliver blinks slowly, shakes his head and gestures for her to continue.

Kim takes a deep breath, fixes her eyes on his. “Love is not something you have to sacrifice in order to—” she waves her hand around, looking for the right words. “Achieve success, or whatever ridiculous thing your parents taught you. I’m not done,” she points at him when he opens his mouth to interject. “You can have both. There’s nothing to keep you from having both. You would never keep Elio from whatever it is he aspires to. And regardless of how _you_ feel or how scared _you_ are, if it’s truly his future you’re worried about, then you should at least give him the opportunity to decide for himself. You can’t throw away a chance at happiness because something better _might_ come along for him. You don’t know that. Nobody knows that.”

She leans back in her chair, folding her arms across the high curve of her belly. 

“Are you done now?” Oliver asks quietly. 

Kim bites at her lower lip, studies him for a moment before she leans in again. “No.”

Oliver sighs heavily. “You’re not allowed to tell me to call my parents after you’ve talked shit about them, you know the rules.”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” she struggles to suppress a tiny grin.

“Okay,” he sips his coffee, sets the mug down and spins it slowly between his hands. “Let me have it.”

“If there’s a chance you’re going to walk away, then you need to stop leading him on,” she says. “It’s cruel, and it’s going to hurt both of you a lot more in the end. Irreparably, if you’re not careful.”

The words sit heavy between them — an absolute truth, and tangible name for the fast growing thrum of anxiety in his gut. Oliver closes his eyes and nods. “I know,” he admits. 

“Okay,” Kim leans back and slips her shoes off under the table. She stretches her feet across to rest on Oliver’s knee. “And you really should call your parents.”

Oliver groans, eyes rolling toward the ceiling before he slumps forward and bangs his forehead on the table. “You’re only saying that because you want my mother to stop calling you.”

She shrugs. “Maybe, but they’re the only parents you’ve got,” she sighs when he tilts his head up and side eyes her. “They’re awful, but they’re not completely hopeless. Your mother asks me about you all the time.”

“Funny how she never asks _me_ about me.”

“She thinks you hate her.”

“I don’t—”

“I _know_ that, but do you honestly think _she_ does? You never actually talk to each other. You know. Like humans,” she rolls her eyes. “I swear, I’ve never known Jews as waspy as your family.” 

Oliver snorts. “You’re on a roll today,” he mutters, picking his head up off the table. 

“It’ll be a true shame when this kid pops out and I’m no longer allowed to blame the hormones,” she grins. 

—————

_It’s just talking,_ Oliver reasons when the phone rings early the following evening. They can talk, like they’ve been talking. Maybe less comfortably, maybe more the way two old friends might. He wonders if he’s capable of keeping Elio at arms reach, even with so much space between them. Wonders how to be cool while still being kind. How to keep up the pretense until they can speak in person. 

_Just talk about work,_ Kim had said as she’d swung her coat over her shoulders. _That’s never sexy._ To which Oliver had argued, _You’ve never heard him play_.

He does try, though. Asks Elio what his plans are for his doctoral work. It seems innocent enough. 

“So, you got into an argument with a professor and you’re submitting a dissertation proposal to prove your point?”

Elio laughs, “That is _not_ what I said.”

“It sure sounds like what you said,” Oliver teases back.

“First, it was not an argument — it was… a heated debate.”

“With an audience,” Oliver adds and Elio laughs harder. 

“It was in a graduate composition forum, of course there was an audience.”

Oliver stifles his chuckling. “Okay, okay, go on.”

“Second, I’m not petty — it’s not about proving my point to one person,” Elio reasons. “I think my argument has merit and I think others will see value in it, too.”

“I don’t disagree.”

“Thank you.”

“Mmhmm,” Oliver hums.

“And third,” Elio continues, “My professor is the one who encouraged me to do it in the first place. She’s been advising my proposal research.”

“Sounds like the debate paid off, then. It’s important to work with teachers that challenge you,” Oliver says. “Will she continue to work with you once you’ve been approved?”

“You say that like it’s a certainty,” Elio muses. “Unfortunately, Helen is retiring at the end of the school year. I thought about staying at Juilliard, but we discussed alternatives and she’s suggested I apply elsewhere.”

Oliver swallows his sudden, irrational devastation at the thought of Elio moving somewhere across the world. He tries for casual and hopes it works. “Oh? Any major contenders?”

“Only one, as it turns out. She’s recommended I work with a former colleague of hers, so—” Elio expels a heavy sigh that bubbles into a slightly manic burst of laughter. “I’m applying to Columbia.”

“Wow, that’s—” Oliver huffs. “Would you have told me?” 

Elio chews at his lip, thinks about the past few years. The past two weeks. “If I hadn’t picked up the phone on that first night you called? I honestly don’t know. I’m sure my father would have mentioned it to you at some point, so—”

“So, probably not,” Oliver finishes for him.

“Probably not,” Elio agrees. “Do you mind?” he asks and Oliver flinches, though he knows there’s no malice behind the question.

“That you’ll be on my campus? Not at all,” And this, at least, is an easy truth for Oliver to admit. 

“Might,” Elio corrects. “Might be on your campus. I still have to apply, get approved, accepted, deemed worthy, etcetera.”

“Have more faith in yourself, Elio. Have you started working on the actual proposal yet?”

“Some, but it’s—” he sighs. “I don’t know. There’s so much I want to say. I feel like every time I start on something I veer off into an adjacent argument. Kind of like the student you were talking about the other night.”

“Those ideas may not necessarily be bad things, as long as they’re supportive of your main subject,” Oliver offers. “Set them aside for your dissertation and stick to the broader topic for the proposal.”

“Hmm,” Elio finds himself smirking into the receiver. “Is that your expert opinion, Professor?” 

“Well, I don’t know about expert.” Oliver huffs. “It’s my advice as someone who’s done this before.”

“I’ll certainly take it into consideration then,” Elio grins. “Would you read my outline? Or, perhaps I should say the outline of my outline— I doubt if I’ll be that far along—”

“I’d be happy to read anything you’d like to share,” Oliver interrupts. “You don’t have to ask. I’m not sure how much help I can be on the subject matter, but I’d still like to read it. At the very least I can check your form.”

“No, that’s fine—” Elio bites his lip, and considers the opening he’s just been given for a split second before the words tumble out of his mouth. “Hopefully my form will be to your satisfaction.”

Oliver chuckles quietly. “I can’t imagine that being an issue,” he says, unable to help himself. He hears Kim’s quiet warning in his head — _stop leading him on_ — wonders how he let it get to this point. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, not before they’d talked in person. 

He closes his eyes and thinks back to the last time he saw Elio. How he’d drunk in every detail, from the tiny frown of concentration at a difficult passage, to the barely masked self-satisfied grin upon taking his final bows. Elio, with his hair grown long, just skimming the back of his neck, curls swooping in front of his face like a curtain when he curved over the piano, bright lights of the stage making his skin seem to glow. Delicate still, his frame thin and lanky, but filled out more than he’d been at seventeen. 

Oliver’s imagined what it would be like to touch, to taste. To wake up with Elio in his arms, to kiss his smile, to share the mundane details of their days with one another. Hearing his voice has only made it more difficult to keep those fantasies at bay. With them, though, come the others — Elio on stages around the world, flashing lights and chanting crowds. Elio in recording studios, leading orchestras. And lately, Elio in classrooms. He imagines Elio holding himself back, turning down offers, tamping down his own success, so that he can be close to Oliver. He hears the sharp snap of his mother’s voice, in his childhood, his teens, at the end of his engagement. He can see the wave of her hand, the metallic clink of her rings knocking together. _Don’t be silly, Oliver. Love is a luxury._

“You still there?” Elio’s voice brings him back to the surface. “You went all quiet.”

“Yeah,” Oliver clears his throat. “Sorry, I um— I actually need to go.”

“Oh,” Elio can’t hide the mix of surprise and upset in his tone. “O-okay. I guess we’ll talk tomorrow?”

Oliver rubs a hand over his face. “I may be out most of the day,” he lies and wonders if it sounds as false to Elio as it does to his own ears. “It’ll probably be too late by the time I get home.”

“Is everything okay?” 

“Fine,” Oliver tries for a laugh. Tries for casual. “Just some plans with friends. Old college friends, actually. I’d forgotten about it and I still have some things to take care of before I head out in the morning. We’ll talk soon, okay?”

“Okay,” Elio is quiet, hesitant. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Elio.”

Oliver forces himself to hang up first, step away from the phone, remove the temptation to call back, apologize. He does the dishes, turns out all the lights, slowly makes his way up to his bedroom. 

He showers and crawls into bed, spends too long staring at the dark ceiling. He wonders what Elio would say, and then finds himself laughing at the thought, because he knows, he _knows_ what Elio would say. He’d be outraged upon hearing the life-long mantra of Oliver’s mother. And he’d be right to be upset, to be furious, even. To tear down the foundation Oliver’s parents had so carefully laid. 

And what if love isn’t a luxury? What if it’s a necessity? What if that’s what Oliver’s always believed, but has been afraid to live? 

What if it’s what he wants? 

He rolls over, shoves his head under the pillow. Wanting it doesn’t mean he gets to have it, doesn’t mean he can make himself happy at the expense of someone else. Unless _unless unless_ Kim’s voice helpfully supplies. Oliver realizes he can’t make decisions for Elio. He has to let him choose his own path. And he knows, logically, he _knows_ he’s overcomplicating something that should be simple. 

_You deserve to be happy._

“Okay,” Oliver whispers, a quiet rasp against his sheets. “Okay, okay.”

—————

Elio holds the receiver long after Oliver disconnects the line. The constant hum of the dial tone eventually flips over to the abrasive barb of the busy signal, reminding him to set the phone back on its cradle. 

He needs to convince himself that this is nothing. That he shouldn’t overreact. Oliver has a life, after all. Elio can hardly expect that he’s sitting home every night waiting by the phone, wiling away the hours until they can speak. It’s nothing more than exactly what Oliver had said — plans with friends. 

And still. 

He can’t shake the feeling that something has changed. But the how, what, why — he can’t put a finger on. Everything had been fine, hadn’t it? They’ve been speaking as if — well, as if they’re already a couple. Haven’t they? Or has he misread everything? Is that not Oliver’s intention, after all? Had the slight innuendo about his form been the toe over the line that Oliver had been waiting for? The kick back to the start?

But Oliver is the one who’d called back. Said _I missed you,_ and _It’s a date._ Who’d said _Us_ when Elio had asked. And Oliver would never be cruel. Would never let him believe there’s hope for something to be rekindled if that moment is lost.

Elio wonders if, perhaps, it’s the distance. Or if there’s more that Oliver needs to tell him when they finally meet in person. He’s said, more than once, that there are things he’d rather talk about face to face. 

He shoves himself away from the sofa and slumps onto the stool in front of the piano, drags his fingers noisily over the keys. He should practice, work, focus on something productive, but he knows it’s no good. He tries anyway, forces himself to get through a few measures, to feel like he’s done something tonight. After twenty minutes, he gives up and calls Marzia’s house, forgetting the hour and cringing at her harsh whisper when she answers the phone. 

_“Tu es fou. Ma mère va te tuer!”_

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Elio winces. “I wasn’t thinking about— f-never mind, never mind,” he mutters. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Elio, no, Elio!” she whispers loudly as he starts to hang up. “Stop, what’s wrong?”

He sighs. “Can you come out? Have a drink? On me, I promise.”

Marzia swears under her breath. “You’re paying for my taxi home, as well.”

“Done,” Elio says, jamming his feet into his shoes. 

—————

They make their way through the crowd of sweaty bodies, Marzia tugging Elio by the hand as she leads him from the main room into a smaller one with a less crowded bar. Grinning over her shoulder, she points to an empty booth at the back corner of the club.

She leans back and tips her mouth to Elio’s ear, “I’ll get the booth, you get our drinks.”

Elio nods and heads for the bar. He arrives at the table a few minutes later, arms laden with beer bottles and a tray full of shot glasses. Marzia helps him carefully set everything down and motions for him to sit. He digs his cigarettes out of his pocket, tosses them onto the table, and flops into the booth beside her. He takes one of the beer bottles and clinks it against the one closest to Marzia. “_Salute_,” Elio mutters, then chugs down half the bottle in a long swig.

“Well?” Marzia asks, flicking her nail against the chilled glass of Elio’s bottle. She picks up her own and sips from it, waiting for him to speak.

He slants his eyes toward her, gives an exaggerated shrug. “What?”

“No,” her laugh gives way to friendly admonishment. “You did not drag me out of bed to watch you smoke and drink and tell me nothing’s wrong.”

“I’m overreacting,” Elio picks at the label on his bottle. He shakes his head. “I must be. It can’t have— I must be overreacting.”

Marzia rolls her eyes. She slides the pack of cigarettes off the table and taps one out, holds it to her lips while Elio lights it for her. “Okay,” she says around a puff of smoke. “Please stop being dramatic and tell me what happened with Oliver.”

Elio takes a deep breath, drags a hand over his face, and chugs the remainder of his beer. He sets the bottle down and reaches for another one. “It’s just— everything was fine, seemed fine. We were talking about school— I told him about Columbia, and that I wouldn’t have said anything if we hadn’t reconnected—”

Marzia winces. 

“I know,” Elio pulls a face. “He didn’t seem upset by it, though.”

“Okay,” Marzia nods. “So what’s the issue?”

Elio shrugs. “I don’t know what happened. He said he’d look over the outline for my dissertation proposal. He said—” he starts to smile, but it quickly fades to a confused frown. “He said he’d check my form, and I made a stupid joke about it,” he looks over at Marzia. “But he didn’t brush it off, you know? He gave it right back to me.”

Marzia takes the bottle from his hand and offers him one of the shot glasses instead. Elio accepts, clinking his glass sloppily against hers. 

“_Santé,_” she giggles, licks spilled vodka off the back of her hand and downs the shot. They slam their glasses down at the same time. 

Elio sinks lower against the seat and gestures for Marzia’s cigarette. “Get your own,” she smirks.

“Those are my own,” he says as she takes a drag and passes it to him. 

Marzia raises another shot glass, lifting her brows suggestively at him. He takes another from the tray, knocking it against hers and tossing it back. He sets the glass down and takes a puff from the cigarette, laughs as he watches Marzia twist her lips and shake her head. 

“Why do you drink it if you don’t like it?” he asks.

She pats her chest. “It’s just the first two,” she rasps out. “I’m fine after that.”

He arches a brow at her, but says nothing, opting to reach for his beer instead. “Will this help?”

Marzia shrugs, but takes her bottle anyway. “So, I still don’t know what you’re upset about,” she says. “You said he was fine with everything.”

“He seemed to be,” Elio sighs. “But then it was— almost like a switch had flipped. He got quiet, and then all of the sudden, had to go.” 

“Did he give you a reason?”

Elio nods. “He said he had plans the next day and had only just remembered.”

Marzia scrapes her teeth over her lower lip. “It is quite possible that he has plans,” she says. “Likely, even.”

“I _know_ that,” Elio takes a drag and exhales through his nose. “It just felt like he’d pulled back somehow. Everything before that had been easy and I really thought that— I don’t know.” He lets out a pitiful whine and digs the heel of his hand into his eye, rubbing furiously for a second, then letting his arm drop heavily into his lap. He tilts over slowly until his face collides with Marzia’s neck. “I feel like a fucking teenager all over again.”

“Elio,” Marzia groans into the mop of his hair. “You’ve been talking for hours on end, and long distance at that. I’m sure he’s not blowing you off. It has been six years, you know. He had a life before you knew him and he must have one now,” she reasons. “If you were in New York, you’d be out and about, too, no?”

Elio shrugs against her, “I guess.” 

She pinches his arm, “Talk to him tomorrow and see how it goes.” Marzia sits up, dislodging him from her shoulder and reaching out her hand. “Tonight, you should dance with me.” She quickly drains the rest of her beer and sets the empty bottle down.

“I’m too drunk and tired to dance,” Elio moans, falling into the empty space Marzia’s left behind. 

“Nonsense,” she laughs, grabbing his hand in both of hers. She sways back on her heels, using her weight to pull him from the booth. “You haven’t been too drunk or tired to dance in all the years I’ve known you.”

Elio snorts, stumbling upright, arms flying around her waist to catch her before she topples over. Their foreheads collide in the flurry of motion and they both howl, then roar with laughter. Elio reaches back for two more shots, handing one to Marzia, barely waiting for her to tap her glass to his before he’s tipping the liquor into his mouth. 

Marzia leans past him to toss her glass back onto the tray. She snorts when it tips onto its side and rolls to the edge. “Oops,” she giggles, looking at him with a shrug. Elio shakes his head, feels dizzy and silly and just wants not to think for a while. He lets Marzia take his hand, tries not to trip over his feet as he follows her into the next room. 

They lose track of time on the dance floor, one song flowing into the next until their legs will no longer hold them. Elio is sweaty, warm, and happily drunk by the time he and Marzia collapse into his bed just after four in the morning. 

“You were supposed to call me a taxi,” she slurs, curling against Elio’s side.

“I did,” he mumbles. “You got into mine.” 

Marzia whines in response, digging her nose into his collar bone. 

“Just go to sleep. Not like you’ve never slept here before,” he cranes his head down and nuzzles her hair.

She snorts and presses her palm over his face. “None of that,” she laughs. “I’m drunk, but not drunk enough.”

“None of that,” he grins against her hand. He gently nudges her onto her side and tugs the blanket over them. “Just sleep.” 

—————

Oliver wakes early and spends most of the day out of the house — a small attempt to lessen the guilt of lying to Elio the night before. He stops by his office to check his inbox and pick up anything that’s been lingering. On his way out, he bumps into a colleague and they decide to have an early lunch to chat about the upcoming semester. The conversation soon turns to philosophical debate and Oliver welcomes the opportunity to let his mind stray from its current preoccupations. 

He visits The Met toward closing time, walks the perimeter of one of the larger galleries, and stops to admire a few of his favorite works as he passes. After a day spent trying keep his mind elsewhere, Oliver can’t help but think of what it might be like to have Elio by his side now — to gently nudge his shoulder, lean in and speak quietly against his ear. He imagines the spark behind Elio’s eyes, the curve of his clever mouth, his smile just perfectly crooked. Oliver looks around the empty gallery and wants, wants, wants. 

The light is blinking on the answering machine when he gets home. Seeing it pumps a tiny thrill into his veins, but it turns into quivering anxiety as he approaches the table, finger hovering over the play button. He presses it quickly, listens to the timestamp and hopes for Elio’s voice, despite himself. He’s both miserable and relieved when the message is from his co-worker, just a thank you for lunch and a formidable debate. He skips through it and hits erase. 

He reads his campus mail while he eats, tossing out a bunch of outdated department memos and setting aside anything important. A few students are looking to audit one of his lectures in the spring, and a colleague has asked him to take on the advisement of one of her doctoral students when she goes on maternity leave. He makes some notes and clears away his dishes, then brings the rest of the mail up to his office. It’s still too early to go to sleep and he’s not really tired, yet, anyway. 

Shuffling through the papers on his desk, he digs out the crossword he didn’t get around to from the Sunday Times, snorting when he notices that it’s appropriately holiday themed. He stretches out on the sofa, kicking his ankles up onto the armrest and whizzes through clues in the ‘across’ column, blocking in uppercase letters with black ballpoint pen — a habit he’d picked up at a young age, after realizing it simultaneously aggravated his father and charmed his grandmother. 

_A pencil, Oliver, always a pencil. _  
_Oh, Joseph, let him alone. He shouldn’t be afraid to be wrong._  
_He shouldn’t think he’s always right, either, Millie._

He’d told his grandmother, once, that he liked the feel of pen gliding over paper. Figuring out a clue, plugging it into the boxes, understanding how the puzzle fit together — being sure of the answers. Sure of himself. 

_And if the answer is wrong, Oliver? _  
_I’ll figure it out, Bubbe. The clean-up is just a little bit harder._  
_My clever boy._

That confidence has been with him through so much of his life, guided so many of his decisions. _I know myself._ Now he wonders if it’s left him. If he’d ever really had it at all. The puzzle swims in front of his eyes, unfocused, incomplete. He rubs at his temples, shakes himself, looks back to where he left off. _Mi re do re mi fa sol — solfège_ standing in for a carol title. Oliver reads and re-reads the scales, hums a tune in his head, blocks _The First Nowell_ into the empty row of boxes. Wonders how long it would have taken Elio to solve it. His eyes wander toward the phone on his desk. Before he can tumble down the rabbit hole of should or shouldn’t I, Oliver hauls himself off the sofa, shuts the lights in the office, and goes to bed.

The next morning, he forces himself to get another early start, bundling up and going for a run just as the sun’s starting to rise. It’s freezing outside, the kind of cold that hurts to breathe, but he powers through it for as long as he can, hoping the shock of ice will help clear his mind for a little while.

While he runs, he has one-sided conversations with Elio in his head. Everything he’s been bottling up for the past six years spilling over the wire, harshly worded lessons from his childhood minced with the knot of anxiety that’s been tightening in his belly for the past few days. He goes over and over it, until it becomes a mess without beginning or end. 

_Because there’s still so much for you to experience._  
_Because I can’t be the reason you hold back._  
_Because I don’t want you to regret it._

_Because I do know myself,_ he thinks. _And I won’t be able to let go.  
Because I’m selfish._

_Because love is a luxury, Oliver._ The persistent whisper of his mother’s voice taunts him. 

He searches for the measured calm of Kim’s voice. For his own resolve. The simple _Okay, okay, okay,_ that had offered him such relief the other night, is nowhere to be found. There is only a lingering chorus of doubt _because, because, because._

The phone is ringing when Oliver comes through the front door. He’s sweating, breathless, having found the cold too bitter for a proper cool down. He bites the finger of his glove and tugs it off with his teeth as he reaches for the receiver. 

“Hello,” he pants, yanking the hat from his head and unzipping his hoodie.

“Hey,” Elio’s tone, usually so transparent in a single word, is indecipherable. Amusement laced with uncertainty, or perhaps he’s just reading into things.

“Hi,” Oliver replies, another breathless gust of air. 

“Are you— did I catch you at a bad time?”

“N— well, yes, I suppose. I was just out for a run and have to grab a quick shower.”

“Oh,” Elio brightens. “Call me once you’re done and we—”

“Sorry, I—”

They speak over one another and stop, the silence between them an awkward, unfamiliar quiet. 

“You go ahead,” Elio says. 

Oliver sighs. “I have to rush back out. Faculty get together.”

Elio grits his teeth. “Oliver—” he shakes his head. “Is something— did I do something? Or say something? You seem—”

“No, no, it’s nothing. I’m just—” Oliver rubs the phone against his temple. “I’m sorry, Elio. We can speak later, okay?”

“Later,” Elio nods. “Sure,” he disconnects the line before Oliver can say anything more.

Oliver lingers there, receiver still clutched in his fist. His first instinct is to call back, to explain that he— that he— he what? 

_Because I wanted to be good, and I fell in love with you instead.  
Because I’m terrified that I’ve messed you up. That I will mess you up._

“Fuck,” Oliver breathes, quiet, then loud, louder, yells it into his empty home. He slams the phone back into its cradle and storms up the stairs. 

Slumping forward under the hot spray of the shower, his limbs feel like heavy weights that he doesn’t want to carry. He presses his forehead against the tile, pounds the wall with the meat of his fists. Tells himself it’ll be fine. 

—————

Elio paces the room in a flurry, a thin cloud of smoke trailing him at each turn. He’s lost track of how many cigarettes he’s gone through today.

“You’re making me dizzy,” Marzia complains after she’s watched him circle the room countless times. “Come, sit.”

“I can’t,” Elio waves at her. “I’m so— he can’t just— _Il se comporte comme un idiot!_ I mean—”

“_Elio!_” Marzia finally yells. He freezes in place, eyes snapping to hers. “Sit! _Tu me rends folle._” 

Elio sighs dramatically, stubs his cigarette out and throws himself into the chair adjacent to hers. 

“So you asked him if something was wrong?” Marzia says after Elio’s been quiet for a moment.

“Mmhmm,” he mumbles. “He said it’s nothing — just busy. Again.”

“And why don’t you believe him?”

“Did you believe me?” Elio snaps. He digs his knuckle into the bridge of his nose, peers at her from behind his fingers. “Fuck. _Désolé,_” he mutters quietly.

Marzia lifts a brow at him, stares hard until he looks away. “_Ça va._”

Elio drops his head back, sprawls his legs over the arm of the chair. “You’d have to know him to—” he closes his eyes, swallows. “I can’t explain. It’s just wrong. I can tell that something’s wrong.”

She purses her lips, pulls a face and gets up from her seat. “You shouldn’t call him again.”

Elio frowns. “What if he stops—”

Marzia shakes her head. “He won’t,” she smiles, winding her fingers into the tangled mess of Elio’s hair.

“How do you know?” 

“Because he called you in the first place,” she laughs, tugging his head gently. She slips her hand away and walks toward the piano. “When are you going to tell me about your secret project?”

“When it’s finished,” Elio chews at his lip. “Marzia?”

“If he calls, then you let him talk. If he doesn’t talk, then you tell him to call you back when he can explain. Or that you’ll see him in New York.”

Elio sits up and reaches for his cigarettes. Marzia grabs the pack before he can wrap his fingers around it, dancing away and perching on the arm of the chair nearest the piano. “You smell like an ashtray,” she says. “Get up. Play something,” she gestures for him to move. “I haven’t heard you play in days.”

“I have,” Elio grumbles, as he slouches away from the sofa and onto the piano stool. “You just haven’t been here.”

“Well, I’m here now and I’m tired of your moping. Mope when I’ve gone home,” she smirks at him and he can’t help but smile back. “That’s better.”

Elio rolls the stool forward and kisses her. “_Je t'aime, Marzia._”

She snorts, butts her head against his. “_Je le sais._”

—————

Elio tries to heed Marzia’s advice. He tells himself not to call — that Oliver will call him. He said he would, after all. 

When Marzia suggests they spend a day in the city, Elio agrees. They drive to Milan early in the morning and spend a few hours roaming aimlessly through the streets before deciding to stop for coffee at a small cafe near his parents’ apartment. Elio insists on checking in to make sure there’s no mail collecting dust for him with the doorman. 

The city is still adorned with holiday lights and crowded with tourists for the upcoming New Year’s Eve festivities. Elio tries to be upbeat, puts on a happy face, links his arm with Marzia’s as they walk. In every pause, though, his thoughts wander to Oliver. To what he’s doing, when they’ll speak, what he’ll say. To what if he’s misunderstood everything — the first call, all the ones that came after.

He pours over every word — hears the echo of Oliver’s voice in his head and wonders how he could have been wrong. If it’s been one-sided, if Oliver’s been trying to tell him something entirely different and he’s just been unwilling to hear it. 

“Elio,” Marzia loudly interrupts his brooding spiral, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning, you know? You’d better liven up for my last day in town.”

It takes a second for the words to register. Elio whips around to face her. “Wh— you’re leaving before New Year’s Eve? But you can’t! What am I supposed to do all night? Where are you going?”

Marzia shrugs and strolls ahead of him. “I told you this the first week I got here! I’m going back to Paris. I start classes much earlier than you do,” she reminds him. “And I have plans tomorrow night.”

Elio scowls, trailing unhappily after her. “I can’t believe you’re leaving me alone on New Year’s Eve.”

“You’re barely speaking to me and I’m right beside you. Are you even going to notice I’m gone?” she teases. 

“I’m sorry,” he starts, but she pushes her fingers against his lips.

“Besides, you chose to come back here!” she laughs, jabbing a finger at his chest. “And you’ve been hibernating in that house for almost a month _alone._ If you want to do something else, go _home._”

“I am—”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” she cuts him off.

He shakes his head. “My parents are coming back in a few days,” he sighs. “I don’t want to leave without saying good-bye.”

Marzia shrugs. “So you’ll mope around for a few more days, maybe finish your secret music project, and then you’ll go back to New York and figure out what’s going on with Oliver.”

Elio shoves her gently. “Don’t be mean. You know I’ll miss you.”

“I know,” she smiles, looping her arm through his again. “And you’re over thinking things. He’s probably just busy. It’s holidays, you know? He has friends, his family is probably around,” she shrugs. “Give him the benefit of the doubt.”

He chews his lips, stares at the pavement as they walk. 

“You don’t believe that,” Marzia says, watching him carefully.

Elio shakes his head, “No.”

“Then it’s nothing you can solve from here,” she shrugs. “So you should stop worrying about it and buy me lunch instead.”

“Fine,” Elio rolls his eyes and throws his arm over her shoulders. “What are we having?”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, there's probably some light phone sex in the immediate future.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willpower? Who needs willpower?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire fic grew around the piano moment that happens in this chapter. Inexplicable, I know.

New Year’s Eve rolls around and Oliver realizes that he’s managed to turn down every invitation he’s received to ring in the night. He'd meant to keep his options open, but slowly the RSVP dates would come up and nothing really appealed to him. Not wanting to leave any of his friends hanging, he’d decline — politely, graciously, sometimes more than once. Now he’s left with the utterly juvenile and foolish hope that someone will call him with a last minute invite — _just checking in again, are you sure you can’t_— so he can pretend to change his mind, show up to some party, after all. His intention had never been to spend the evening alone — more time with his own thoughts is less than appealing, yet as the day rolls forward, that seems to be where he’s headed.

He tidies up, does a load of laundry, starts putting together some notes for the book he’s hoping to work on in the spring. For the most part, he manages to ignore the near constant flutter in his stomach — that aching reminder that something is wrong, that he needs to fix it. That he doesn’t know what to do. At some point, the time does to slip away from him, turns the sky outside his window black. He taps the pad of his index finger against the phone, drawing figure eights across the smooth surface. It’s already close to 2am in Italy. Calling right would be ridiculous, especially considering how their last conversation had gone. And yet, Oliver misses the sound of Elio’s voice, even laced with anger. He wants to know what Elio did for New Year’s Eve — if he went out, danced, drank. If he kissed someone. If he liked it.

“No,” he shakes his head. “No.”

In the bedroom, he changes into a pair of sweats and a tee shirt, brushes his teeth, and flops into bed. He spends five minutes staring at the ceiling, then rolls his head to the side, eyes landing on the phone at his nightstand.

“Fuck,” he mutters and closes his eyes, tries to ignore it. He lasts three more minutes before he squints one eye open to glare at the phone accusingly.

Before he can think better of it, he picks up the receiver and dials. The phone rings two-three-four times. Oliver pulls it away from his ear, about to hang up when the line connects. He sucks in a breath, waits for the sleepy rasp of Elio’s voice, greedy for it, but there’s only static.

“Elio?” he finally asks. “Are you there?”

“Mmhm,” Elio hums. Awake, alert. Angry. A small part of Oliver thrills at knowing him so well.

“I’m sorry to have called so late,” he offers. “If you—”  
  
“It’s no longer out of the ordinary, so let’s not waste time with pointless apologies,” Elio snaps.

Oliver pauses, taken aback. “Elio, I—”

“It’s fine,” Elio insists, despite the ire in his tone. “How was your faculty get together?” 

It takes a moment for Oliver to connect Elio’s question with his own lie, a beat too long before he can answer. He clears his throat, sounds too loud in the tense space between them. “It was okay.” 

Elio mutters something in French. Oliver doesn’t understand a word of it, but feels scolded, none the less. An image of Elio flies into his mind — 17 years old and fuming, having misunderstood a lingering gaze for a glare. One of those awkward days where they’d stopped speaking again for whatever inane reason, before they’d realized that— before they’d realized. Elio, with his arched brow and pouting lips, long fingers curling into Oliver’s own. He smiles at the memory, a quiet laugh rumbling out of his chest before he can stop it.

“_Qu'est-ce que_— are you laughing?” 

“Not at you,” Oliver says, quickly. “A little at you. A memory. That’s all.”

“I’m glad to know I amuse you,” Elio huffs. 

“Come on, Elio. Let’s not do this.”

“Do what, Oliver? What are we doing, exactly?”

Oliver swallows. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I’m not a fool, please don’t treat me like one,” Elio pleads. “If you can’t be honest with me, then we should just say good-bye.”

“You know I would never—” Oliver digs his knuckle in at the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what it is you think is going on.” 

“You called _me,_ Oliver. The first time was a surprise, yes, but you kept calling. And talking to me every night, for hours. Telling me you’ve missed me. That you want to meet for a date when I come back to New York. And then all of the sudden, you turn cold, like a switch. As if it were that summer all over again. I’m not interested in playing games anymore. We know what we are to one another,” he pauses, takes a breath. “At least I thought we did.”

“I’m not playing any games with you, I promise. Honestly, there’ve only been two instances where we’ve spoken and I’ve had to rush off,” Oliver shakes his head. Hates himself. “Don’t you think you might be overreacting?”

“Tell me nothing is wrong, then,” Elio's response is quick, all sharp edges. A warning. 

“I’ve told you — there are some things we have to talk about—”

“In person,” Elio cuts him off. “Right. You didn’t answer my question.”

Oliver sighs. “There’s nothing I can say that’s going to satisfy you. Not over the phone.” 

“Fine. I’ll be back in a week. Figure out what you want to say.”

Elio hangs up before Oliver can respond. He stares at the receiver in his hand, mouth agape, heart fluttering in his chest. It takes a moment for him to spring into action, disconnect the line and pick it up again, redial Elio’s number.

“What.” Elio’s voice is rougher this time — pissed off and exasperated. Still, there’s an underlying softness that Oliver almost wishes would go away. Wishes he could drive out for good. Break both their hearts (_again_), get it all over with, and yet. And yet.

“Elio, I don’t want to fight with you. I don’t know what else to do.”

“I don’t understand,” Elio says after a moment. “Why can’t you just talk to me now? We’ve been talking all along. If you have something to tell me— if there’s something that’s going to—” his voice breaks and he stops, breathes. 

“It’s not—” Oliver starts, quiet. “I need to see you. I can’t just blurt some of this out from thousands of miles away and not know— not see your face. If that means you don’t want to speak to me until you’re back in New York, then I suppose—”

“That’s not what I want.”

Oliver swallows. “Okay,” _okay, okay,_ he thinks. “I can— if you’d rather not—”

“We don’t have to—”

“Oh, you go ahe—”

“No, I don’t—”

There’s an awkward quiet as they stop trying to speak over one another. Elio huffs, frustrated with Oliver, with himself, with all of it. 

“Play something,” Oliver says, when they’ve gone too long without speaking. When the distance between them seems greater than it ever has before. When he’s out of ideas, and the thought of hanging up is too much to bear.

Elio can’t tell if he’s asking or begging. Maybe a little of both. He chews at the inside of his cheek. “I’ll play,” he offers. “If you touch yourself while you listen.”

This time, the silence is weighted. Elio listens to static crackle down the line. He stands up and moves the phone over to the piano. Oliver exhales heavily and Elio holds his breath.

“All right,” Oliver agrees. 

There’s a muffled sound of bedclothes being tossed about and Elio tries to imagine Oliver in a strange bed, in a strange room. He touches his thumb to middle C and holds the note for several beats. 

“Are you ready?” 

“Yes,” Oliver breathes, low and quiet.

Elio grits his teeth and swallows. He sets the receiver down on the music shelf, curves his fingers over the keys, and begins to play. 

Oliver recognizes the Chopin étude immediately — familiar with its gradual swells and plummeting reliefs, an emotional build that would leave him breathless on a standard recording. The addition of Elio’s playing seems almost dangerous. He closes his eyes, imagining the pale curve of Elio’s back as he sits at the piano, as he’s spread face-down over a sweaty mess of sheets with Oliver bent over him, as he’s on his knees, head down, eyes up, mouth so wet and warm and—

Oliver shoves his sweatpants down over his hips and spits into his palm. He wraps his fist around the base of his cock and drags his hand up slowly, stroking himself in time to Elio’s music, to clever hands flying over polished keys. To the memory of those same hands traveling over every inch of his skin. 

He circles the pad of his thumb over the head of his dick and gasps at the sensation. He’s already too close and too soon. It’s been so long since he’s let himself feel this good, enjoy it this much. He slides his fist down to the base, grips tight and breathes, tries to regain some control, and then he moves. Slow, fast, slow. Teasing himself, almost to the brink, letting Elio’s fingers coax him back down, only to do it again, and again, until he’s trembling. He knows the piece is building to a beautiful moment that will surely bring him over the edge.

His muscles begin to tighten, toes curling against the sheets, the stroke of his fist a rapid up-down as he follows the rise of the music before its final fall. He’s hungrier for it than he could have imagined. 

The music stops abruptly at the height of the crescendo. Oliver gasps at the suddenness of it. His breathing is erratic, heart kicking wildly against his ribs. 

“Are you close?” Elio’s voice is sudden. A low, calm murmur in his ear.

Oliver grips himself, blinks sweat out of his eyes. Panting, he grits out a desperate, “Yes.” 

Elio listens to him breathe, one-two-three seconds tick by as Oliver manages to hold himself back. 

“Call me tomorrow and I’ll play you the rest,” Elio says, and hangs up.

For a breathless moment, Oliver is too stunned to move. Slumped on his bed with the receiver in one fist and his leaking dick in the other, he waits for his brain to catch up or his heart to slow down. The jarring, incessant sound of the disconnect tone startles him and the realization of what’s happened finally sinks in. 

He lets the receiver drop to the floor, throws his head back and laughs — a manic, howling bark that seems to echo through his empty home. Closing his eyes, Oliver can still hear the quiet husk of Elio’s voice in his head, the sound of the piano like a hum under his skin. He’s sweating and restless and still achingly hard. 

His breath stutters out as images of Elio come readily into his mind — the open, gasping pout of his lips, the sweat-damp mess of curls stuck to his forehead. Heavy lidded eyes, pupils blown black and fixed on Oliver’s face. 

With a grunt, Oliver drags his fist up and down his shaft, imagines Elio’s long, slender fingers on his skin, and thinks _‘are you close are you close are you close?’_ until he comes groaning Elio’s name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elio plays Chopin's Op. 10: Étude No. 3 in E Major and stops somewhere around the 2-minute mark.  
The version I listened to for inspo is here:  
https://open.spotify.com/track/4h1blqY5LzPH8fNcglNJPX?si=t5I3_4W8TxewcCbl3kuH5A


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver spends New Years Day milling about the city by himself in the rain, thinking about his past and his future.  
Perhaps he makes a phone call in the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing and editing this, I referred to the first part of this chapter as sad-sack Oliver day, and imagined him as Eeyore... who I love a lot.

It’s a grey and rainy New Year’s day, light barely eking through the drawn shades of Oliver’s bedroom. He spends most of the morning in a frustrated state of semi-arousal, trying to think of anything other than last night. Most of his usual haunts are closed for the holiday, so Oliver stops at a nearby bagel place for breakfast and settles on a stool near the window. The crowd inside is mostly students — girls in sequined dresses with the smudged remnants of last night’s make-up around their eyes, guys with wrinkled shirts untucked, lipstick smeared against their necks, chins, collars. The tell-tale look of a New Year’s hangover.

Oliver takes his time, opens up his bagel and slogs off the heaps of extra cream cheese, arranges the lox and onion slices so they’re evenly distributed, and presses the two halves back together again. He watches the steady stream of people pass by the front window, umbrellas at different heights, mostly black but the occasional color popping out among the masses. Eventually, the shop empties out, grows quiet but for the sounds of the workers muttering to one another as they bring out vats of cold salads for the lunch hour. The lack of background noise makes it easier to think — something he’s been studiously avoiding since waking up this morning.

After the haze of orgasm had passed, the trepidation had come creeping back in. He’s furious with himself for having slipped so easily, for calling back the moment Elio had lashed out. It would have been better to let Elio build his defenses up, get angry and stay that way. Stop playing a game of cat and mouse that only leads right back to where they were — Elio still demanding answers, Oliver still torn between what he wants and what he fears is best.

It had been such a relief, though, to give in. Not for the first time, Oliver’s started to wonder if Kim is right. He chuckles at the thought of her face on hearing those words — the look of utter glee in her eyes would be so rewarding. He makes a mental note to tell her the next time he sees her — if not that he believes it, at least that he’d considered the possibility.

He knows, _he knows_, that he’s overcomplicating an extraordinarily basic issue: He wants to be with Elio. Elio, it surely seems, wants to be with him. Why can’t his heart and mind stop warring with one another and just let it be? Why is every voice in his head louder than his own?

Oliver sighs and drags his hand through his hair, tugging until the pain at his scalp is sharp enough to make him wince. He lets go and exhales heavily. Sipping the dregs of his coffee, he nods to the cashier and tosses his trash into the bin near the front door, then heads back out into the rain.

It’s only mid-morning and the idea of going home fills him with a strange kind of anxiety that he hopes is fleeting. The Met is closed for the day, but Oliver recalls that the Natural History museum is open. He walks a few blocks to the subway and takes the short ride down to 81st street. The museum entrance isn’t crowded yet, so he pays the full suggested donation and collects his ticket. Halfway down the hall, Oliver turns back, approaches the woman at the admissions desk and smiles apologetically. 

“I’d also like a ticket for the planetarium,” he points at the sign hanging just behind the counter. 

The woman grins with the rehearsed cheer of someone working a register on a national holiday. “No problem, sir.”

Oliver hands her a twenty and takes his ticket and change. “Happy new year,” he offers. 

“Happy new year,” the woman’s smile seems a bit more genuine at that. 

He hasn’t visited this museum in years, so he grabs a copy of the floorplan, takes note of where the fossils, Hall of Mammals, and planetarium are, then folds the map and stuffs it into his pocket. He wanders the halls slowly, swerving to avoid parents chasing their pre-schoolers and clusters of tour groups struggling to keep up with their guides. Eventually, he finds himself on the first floor landing in the Hall of Ocean Life.

A tiny smile alights on Oliver’s face when he sees the blue whale suspended from the ceiling. He takes the stairs down to the main level, head turned up as he descends, mouth dropping open just a bit as he takes in the full scale of the gigantic, blue-lit model hanging above. In the center of the floor, small children milling about, Oliver spins in a slow circle and chuckles. He remembers holding his grandmother’s hand in this very spot. Remembers her leaning down and whispering in his ear that the whale’s name was Priscilla, that she liked toast with jam but not butter. Oliver laughs aloud at the memory and immediately covers his mouth. He shakes his head and wonders if his grandmother would remember bringing him here, telling him about Priscilla the whale. Wonders if asking is worth the risk of finding out that she’s forgotten.

Oliver moves on as the crowd in the hall begins to grow. The Hall of Mammals is slightly busy, but he easily towers over most of the people clustered in front of the dioramas there. He circles the gallery, lingering in front of a few favorites that also jump out at him from childhood visits, smiling fondly at memories of each. He decides to call his grandmother once he’s home. They’ve always been close, unlike he and his parents, and it’s been too long since he’s seen or spoken to her.

Exiting the hall, Oliver looks at his watch and realizes it’s almost time for the next space show. He heads toward the planetarium and joins the line of people waiting to be let in. When the doors open, he hands his ticket to the woman at the entryway and takes an end seat in the back row. When the lights dim, Oliver slinks down, stretching his legs out into the aisle.

As a child, Oliver would absorb these shows like water, memorizing facts and figures, reciting them back to his classmates like a badge of honor. He’s surprised to find that the show hasn’t changed much, bits of knowledge swimming to the forefront of his mind just before they go flying across the domed theater screen. It’s another delight in this unexpected trip down memory lane.

By the time the show ends, it’s late afternoon. The museum is pretty crowded as Oliver shuffles past tourists and locals alike on his way back to the 81st street entrance. He stops at the museum gift shop and finds the exact stuffed blue whale his grandmother had once bought for him. He’d named her Priscilla and toted her everywhere. His father was appalled. Constantly snapping at his mother to _take it away_, _toss it in the trash_. Oliver had guarded her like precious stone, kept her tucked safe in his bed, hid her in his knapsack when he went off to school. But he got a bit older, and he started to forget, and then one day, she was gone. He doesn’t even how long it took him to notice her absence. He picks one of the plush whales up and brings it to the register, figuring it’ll make a good baby gift for Kim. He likes the idea of sharing Priscilla with someone whose parents will be kind.

It’s still drizzling outside, so he hurries back to the subway and catches the uptown train. On the ride home, he slips a folded crossword out of his coat pocket and fills in a few more clues. The rain is barely a mist by the time he’s walking up the steps to his front door. Wiping his shoes on the mat in the hall, he toes them off and hangs his coat in the closet. He tucks the bag with the stuffed blue whale on a shelf there, as well, and shuffles into the living room to find a blinking red light on the answering machine. 

Oliver sighs, slowly walking toward the table and pressing play. When the machine announces that there are eleven messages, he feels a cold stone plummet in his stomach. _What’s happened?_

The machine clicks, whirs, clicks again and then beeps, before the first message plays.

“_Hello, Oliver, it’s mom,_” there’s a painful silence after her greeting that Oliver knows is his mother waiting to see if he’ll pick up the phone. “_I’m just calling to say happy new year. It’s been a while since we’ve heard from you— we saw Kimberly the other day and I just thought— oy—_” a sigh. “_Well, call us back when you have some time, dear._”

Oliver rubs a hand over his face, turns to leave the room as the machine flips to the next message. He’s just a few steps into the hallway when it starts — the soft, delicate notes of Elio’s piano — a return to the same Chopin étude from last night, mixed with the whisper of static from the machine tape. Oliver stills, sucks in a breath and exhales, slow and quiet. He turns, feels inexorably pulled toward the music, toward Elio. He drops onto the arm of the sofa, closes his eyes, and listens. 

The message plays out, maybe fifteen seconds, and ends, _click-beep-whir_ and Oliver blinks his eyes open, reaches out his hand to hit rewind. Before his fingers can land, the next message starts, picks up where the other left off. 

“Fuck,” Oliver mutters. He sinks down to the floor, tilts his head back against the side of the sofa, legs splayed out in front of him. 

Elio plays through nine messages, right up to the point where he’d hung up the night before. Oliver’s body thrums with arousal. He presses the heel of his hand to his cock and hisses as the machine moves to the last message. Only static greets him then. Oliver holds his breath for whatever morsel awaits him, sure the machine will cut off before Elio starts to play, speak, anything. The anticipation sets him on edge, the pulse of his heart racing until he feels it stutter at the base of his throat. Finally, there’s a breath, a shuddering exhale that Oliver knows. Recognizes in every fiber of his being. Will never forget. 

The recording ends. 

Oliver lingers there for a few minutes, feels overwhelmed by memory and desire. His mind swings back to thoughts from this morning, to giving in, knowing what he wants, letting it be. He pushes up from the floor, flips the lid of the machine open and digs the tape out. He brings it upstairs to his office, labels it _Op. 10: Étude No. 3 in E Major_ and tucks it into his drawer with the other. 

The apartment is too quiet, gives him too much room to think. He tells himself, repeatedly, that he won’t call — not tonight, at least — that he’ll wait. He’ll make Elio wait. It’s a lie, though, and one he can’t even tell himself convincingly. 

He climbs into bed with a book just after eight. Thirty minutes later, he’s done nothing but try to re-read the same page over and over. He tosses the book aside and rolls over to grab the phone. As he dials Elio’s number, he wonders if it counts as a small triumph that he held out as long as he did.

He’s half hard by the time the phone is ringing.

“I wasn’t sure you’d call,” Elio’s voice is a quiet rasp in Oliver’s ear. 

“You knew I would,” Oliver murmurs. “I got your messages.”

“Hmm.” Elio can’t help the smug grin that tugs at his mouth. He pushes the ball of his foot against the floor and spins the piano stool slowly from side to side. “Tell me what happened after I hung up last night.” 

“I—” Oliver swallows, exhales slowly through his nose. “I thought about you. About us.”

“Tell me,” Elio whispers, forcing himself to still. 

“Your hands on me,” Oliver breathes. “The way we moved together. Your voice, over and over.”

Elio’s breath trembles. “Did you come?”

“Yes,” Oliver slides down lower on the mattress. “Will you play me the rest?”

“Are you ready?” 

“Yeah,” Oliver palms himself over his sweatpants, swallows a gasp and shoves his hand under the waistband. He curls his fist around the base of his dick. “Yeah.”

Elio bites his lip, hesitates for a second and wonders how far he can push. “Don’t come until I finish.”

“Are you going to hang up again?”

“No,” Elio says quietly. “I want to hear you.”

“Okay,” Oliver whispers.

Satisfied, Elio puts the receiver on the music shelf and takes a breath. He sets his fingers over the keys and picks up the piece from a few frames earlier than where he’d left off. The notes climb to an apex after a few bars, then tumble into a soft recall of the earlier melody. Elio’s mind swims with echoes of Oliver’s voice. _Your hands on me. Over and over. Us. Us. Us._ His teeth sink into his bottom lip as he tries not to rush through to the finish just to get his hands on himself, to seek relief as he listens to the broken sound of Oliver moaning as he comes. 

He reaches the final section of the étude, notes swelling in crescendo once more before reaching their conclusion. Elio lets his hands still, exhales quietly and reaches for the phone. He holds the receiver to his ear and hears Oliver’s ragged breathing. It sends a fiery current through his already trembling body, the sound bringing memories in such vivid detail, it’s as though every breath is a wet gasp against his neck, fingers curling in his hair, a warm fist around his dick. He stumbles away from the piano and drops onto the sofa. “Talk to me,” he murmurs. 

Oliver huffs out a breath. “I wish I could touch you.” 

Elio closes his eyes. “Don’t stop,” he spits into his palm and slips his hand into his pants, grips the base of his cock and strokes up slowly. 

“You’re one to talk,” Oliver teases.

“Ahh,” Elio licks his lips, drags his fist up and down his shaft. “I didn’t stop you, though.” 

Oliver twists his wrist, gasps, mouth open wide, and suddenly he’s laughing. It should be jarring, but Elio can’t help the smile that blooms on his face, the laughter that follows. The distance between them fills, amusement fading to sighs, names whispered low and desperate, stuttered breathing, skin sliding over skin. 

Oliver swipes his thumb over the head of his cock and sucks in a breath, lets it out with a low chuckle. 

Elio tips his head back, presses the receiver so tight to his ear it’s almost painful. He scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip. “What would you do,” he rasps. “If you could touch me.” 

Oliver can hear Elio’s smile in the way his words blur together, pictures the half curve of his lips, the peek of his tongue sliding over his teeth. He lets his hand slip down, the long line of his middle finger pressed to the seam of his balls, the tip dragging back and forth. 

“Take you in my mouth,” Oliver’s voice is rough, a shiver, as his finger dips lower. “Get you wet.”

Elio sighs, jacks himself faster. “Gonna fuck your mouth.”

“Nn-uh-uh,” Oliver chastises, remembers Elio, panting and sweaty, pale hips pinned to the bed. “Not yet.”

Elio whines, back arching off the sofa, “I’m gonna come.”

“Yeah,” Oliver suddenly gasps, his hand stills as he frowns at the ceiling. “Are you still sitting at the piano?” 

“I’m— fuck, fuck, f-” Elio comes over his fist. He turns his head, laughing so hard he goes silent, breathless, open mouth pressed to the sofa cushion beside him. 

Oliver listens to him come down, catch his breath and sigh. He strokes himself idly, the urgency gone, replaced with a bittersweet ache — more than anything, he wants to see Elio right now. Touch him, taste him. Kiss the smile off his face. He sighs, pulls his hand from his pants and smooths it over the cool, empty span of mattress beside him. 

“Okay?” he asks when Elio’s laugher finally goes from breathless gasping to a soft chuckle.

Elio hums, giddy and sated. He grabs a handful of tissues from the box on the coffee table and cleans his hand, props his back up with a pillow. “Did you—”

“No,” Oliver smiles. “I just wanted to listen.”

Elio snorts, “_I_ wanted to listen,” he says, dropping the tissues to the floor. 

“Well,” Oliver’s lips quirk. “You shouldn’t have hung up last night.”

“Touché,” Elio grins.

A hesitant silence falls between them. Elio wonders if every conversation they have, from now until they meet again, will be like this. Or worse, if they’ll devolve into short, petty arguments. Snapping at Oliver, perpetually tense and angry, knowing he’s holding something back. And Oliver — quiet, apologetic, and giving nothing away but his name. A hushed plea. _Elio_.

He just wants to get back to New York, no more late night phone calls, no more time difference. No more space between them. He wants the miles, time, years of separation to be over. He looks for something to say, for a way to make things easy, surprising himself when the words finally tumble out of his mouth. “Are you different?” 

Oliver hesitates. “How do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Elio shrugs, “Just… I know it’s silly, but I still picture you in summer,” he admits. “I suppose I’m just wondering if—”

“If I’m still blond, tan, and half-dressed?” Oliver laughs quietly. 

“Something like that,” Elio chuckles. 

Oliver hums. “I’m significantly less tan,” he laughs again and Elio laughs with him. 

“What else?” Elio closes his eyes, smiles.

“My hair is a bit longer. Darker, too, but not much,” Oliver strokes a hand over his chin. “I’m not as clean-shaven.”

Elio’s breath catches as this new image of Oliver begins to form behind his eyes. “You have a beard?” 

“Not a beard,” Oliver corrects. “My colleagues refer to it as an ongoing 5 o’clock shadow,” he grins. 

Another quiet moment settles. Elio fights with himself to let things be — his thoughts always feel so loud, he’s sometimes shocked that Oliver doesn’t just respond. Call him a goose, tell him he’s being dramatic. _But what are you keeping from me, Oliver?_

“I’ll be back in less than a week,” he finally says. “Do– do you still want—”

“Yes,” Oliver cuts in. “Yes, Elio, I want to see you. As soon as you’re available. I’ll pick you up at the airport, if you’d like.”

Elio sputters out a laugh. “You have a car? In Manhattan?”

“No, but I’ll rent one,” Oliver grins. 

“I can’t let you do that,” Elio says, though his smile is so wide it nearly hurts. “Besides, my parents usually insist on giving me taxi fare from the airport. I’ll call you once I’m home, though.” He pauses. “But you should call me tomorrow.”

Oliver smiles against the receiver, relief bleeding into his bones. _Okay okay._ “Okay.”  



	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver says too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance?

Elio rubs at his eyes and stretches his arms over his head. Looking down at the scatter of pages on his desk, he wonders if anything he’s written makes sense anymore. If it ever made sense to anyone other than him. He wishes he could bring them to his advisor, and can imagine Helen’s side-eye, her coarse _'Perlman, get your ass in gear and stop wasting my last precious years on this earth'_, the moment he's voiced his concerns for the hundredth time. Though she would, at least, read his outline and tell him if it’s descended into some kind of desperate babbling about the way classical music students should and shouldn’t be taught.

He groans plaintively to the empty room and gets up from his chair. It’s well past midnight, but the phone has been stubbornly silent. Still, Elio feels wonderfully at ease. The mix of anticipation and uncertainty that accompanied the quiet hours before Oliver’s previous calls is blessedly absent. When Oliver floats into his mind, he welcomes the familiar longing that spikes through him, but it’s with confidence, and perhaps a bit of relief, that he stokes the flame of want in his belly.

He’s no longer worried about whether or not he’ll hear from Oliver again — he will. The past two nights have provided a surreal kind of clarity about where they stand with one another. If he calls tonight, tomorrow, if they don’t speak until Elio returns to New York, it doesn’t matter. There’s something troubling Oliver, to be sure, but Elio still holds a space in his heart. Can still command his attention. A part of him wonders if the elation he feels at this discovery makes Oliver the better man he’d always believed him to be. He wonders what his father would say if he asked.

With his stomach grumbling noisily, Elio rummages through the overstuffed refrigerator shelves. He’s not particularly in the mood to heat anything up or put forth much more effort than it takes to unwrap a dish, but everything looks like it would require quite a bit of unpacking. He swings the door shut and spots the neatly wrapped shape of Mafalda’s panforte on the counter. With a happy sigh, he grabs a small dish, carefully pulls up the covering, and cuts away a slice.

The phone rings as he’s licking crumbs from his fingers. Elio stills, the tip of his index finger wet between his lips. He drops his plate into the sink, wiping his hands against his jeans as he leaves the kitchen. He counts two, three, four rings by the time he reaches the piano and lifts the receiver. 

“Hey,” he grins as the current of excitement comes alive in his veins.

“Hi,” Oliver breathes, relieved. “I was about to hang up — thought I’d missed you for the night.” Elio can hear the smile in his tone, the thrum of desire sitting just below the surface.

“I was in the kitchen. Didn’t want to pick up the hall line, so it took me a minute.”

“And where are you now?”

Elio tumbles his fingers over the keys, “Where do you think?”

Oliver chuckles at the obvious answer. “You haven’t told me what it is you’ve been practicing for all this time,” he notes. “The Chopin is flawless, so I know it can’t be that.”

“Are you sure you were focused on the nuance of the music?” Elio teases. 

“I promise you I heard every note,” Oliver insists. “And you haven’t answered my question— unless you’d rather not tell me.”

“I believe you,” Elio says, softly. “Thank you.” He drops onto a chair and curls his knees to his chest. “And you’re right, I’d rather not tell you.”

“I didn’t mean to pry—” 

“That’s not— I don’t mean it like that,” Elio quickly corrects him. “It’s not just you — I haven’t told anyone. I’m probably being silly, or paranoid maybe, but I’m trying not to jinx it, I guess.”

“It’s not silly,” Oliver reasons. “Not if it means something to you.”

“I haven’t practiced much today, anyway,” Elio admits. “I did make some headway on my dissertation proposal. Not entirely sure it isn’t garbage, but I got it down on paper, regardless.”

Oliver huffs out a breath that’s half laugh, half sigh. “Elio, whatever you’ve written, I’m sure it’s not garbage. It’s a draft. You’re going to have rounds of them before you finish, _believe_ me.”

“I know,” Elio groans. “It’s just frustrating. I feel like I’m rambling more than I’m actually making a case for myself.”

“If it’s any consolation, I’ve been there,” Oliver offers. “I’m not sure if you remember some of the crap I was spewing out that summer, but the proposal is only the beginning.”

“Well, that’s incredibly reassuring,” Elio laughs.

Oliver grins. “You’ll get there. I won’t tell you not to beat yourself up over it, because I know from experience that you just wind up doing it anyway, but if you’re committed to putting in the work, you do get there.” 

“I am,” Elio insists. “Committed, I mean.”

“I don’t doubt it. Is there something specific you’re getting hung up on?”

“Oh, I didn’t— you don’t have to listen to me gripe about this stuff. I can just play something again, or—”

“Elio,” Oliver interrupts. “Obviously I enjoy hearing you play. More than enjoy, I suppose.” 

They share a quiet laugh at that. Elio shakes his head, drawing his teeth over his bottom lip. 

“I’m just as happy to talk to you, though,” Oliver finishes. “And it’s certainly never a chore to listen to you talk about anything at all.”

Elio smiles. “Okay.” 

“Just okay?” Oliver chuckles. 

“No, no,” Elio laughs again. “I’m trying to think of how to explain—”

“How did you explain it to your advisor?”

“With a lot of yelling and flailing of my hands, I’m sure. Nothing Helen isn’t used to,” Elio grumbles. Oliver snorts, easily imagining the scene. “It’s a bit of a tangent from my main statement, I suppose, but touches on some of the more frustrating things I’ve discovered as a classical music student and how we’re taught.”

“Like what?”

“Mostly that there’s a difference between inspiration and derivation. There's always an emphasis put on where we get our inspiration, but the moment we name it, the work is labeled as ‘derivative of,’ which is a fairly negative connotation, and also,” Elio tugs a handful of his hair, frustrated. “Incorrect.”

Oliver can’t help the wide grin that spreads over his face. The image of Elio is bright in his mind, passionately defending his position, arms flailing, cheeks flushed. He misses him so fiercely, the feeling is almost acute. He clears his throat. “None of that sounds like rambling to me. Sounds like you’re driving toward a specific point.”

“Not everything that comes from inspiration can be cast off as derivative, is my point,” Elio explains. “It’s possible to have been inspired by something, or someone, and to create something entirely new as the result of that inspiration. It seems like such a blatantly obvious thing to say…”

“Well, I agree,” Oliver says. “Do your professors see things differently?”

“We’re encouraged to compose new work, but expected to find our foundation for that work in classical standards, if that makes sense. It’s—” he pauses, scrubbing a hand over his face. “There’s a lot of old guard mentality. We’re taught to perfect our skills with what already exists. Or to rearrange it and call it something new, which is fine, I guess, I don’t mind doing either of those things, but—” Elio puffs out a heavy sigh. “I’ve found the idea of non-conformity in classical music is not entirely welcome.”

“How do you mean?” 

Elio makes a non-committal noise. “There’s a piece I worked on for… years, actually. I don’t think I realized when I started that it would turn into something— anyway, that’s not the point,” he mutters, waving away his tangent. “I presented it as a recital submission a few semesters ago and the professors on the panel asked what my influences were— I was working off emotion, not technique or a strict effort to emulate classical norms, which was something they couldn’t seem to get their heads around. Maybe I just couldn’t explain it properly,” he laughs but his tone is self deprecating. 

“Seems straightforward enough,” Oliver offers. “What happened?”

Elio snorts quietly. How do you tell a panel of strangers: _This is my heart. His heart. Our hearts. It is everything. All that began and ended, and will somehow never end. Do you understand?_ He shakes his head. 

“It became this frustrating, circular conversation — they insisted that there must have been some inspiration from a classical composer in a fundamental sense. I kept trying to explain that it was experience and emotion, and in some instances, words, not style or composition that had inspired me, in which case, it’s less about classical influence and more about creative inspiration as a whole. They just didn’t seem to get what I was saying and kept coming back around to my classical music foundation. It seemed like such a pointless conversation for me to be having. I just wanted to play the piece and had hoped for a helpful critique prior to anything like a performance, but none of the feedback ever got past that conversational loop. I’d thought, at that level, there’d be more open discussion and receptiveness to new ideas and less drilling down on the things we’ve already mastered. I’m hoping it’s different elsewhere.”

Something tugs at Oliver’s memory — Elio in recital a little over a year ago, a piece that was at once brand new and impossibly known to him at the same time. It’d left him feeling raw, flayed open, and he’d exited the auditorium in a rush the moment the audience had begun to applaud. Out on the sidewalk, he’d gasped at the cool night air, the notes still echoing in his head. He’d quickly hailed a cab back home, tumbled out in front of his apartment and slumped down on the front stoop. It’d hit him then, what Elio had played had been heartbreak — his own, and whether or not he’d been aware, Oliver’s. Theirs. A shared fracture that had never quite managed to mend. Oliver hoisted himself up from the stoop and walked three blocks to the nearest dive bar. He’d spent the rest of the night staring down glasses of scotch and wishing for a hangover bad enough to make him forget. 

“Did you ever get to play it?” Oliver asks, though he’s quite sure he knows the answer.

“Mmhmm, about two semesters ago, give or take. Faculty reception was lukewarm, at best.” Elio gets up and brings the phone back over to the piano. He takes a breath and hesitates for a few seconds. “I can play some of it for you — if you’d like?” 

Oliver sucks in a breath. “Yeah, I—”

“Or—” Elio speaks over him. “If you need to go—”

“No, no,” Oliver steels himself, feigning an easy tone. “Please, I’d love to hear it.”

“Okay,” Elio nods and sets the receiver in its usual resting place. 

The piece begins, delicate and melancholy, and Oliver recognizes it right away. He pushes himself off the sofa, dragging the base of the phone with him and only just manages not to stumble over the cord in his rush to the kitchen. He pours himself half a tumbler full of scotch and downs it quickly, relishing the burn. He closes his eyes and exhales through his nose. The receiver is still resting on his shoulder, somber notes from Elio’s piano drifting across the line, each one adding more and more weight to the ache in his chest. 

Oliver takes the bottle and glass with him and goes back to the sofa. He sets the bottle down on the coffee table with more force than necessary, feels the impact in his hand and worries for a moment that it’s cracked. He pours himself another, knows that he’s not going to find what he’s looking for — which is. Which is— what? A response? What is there to say? _Yes,_ and _I understand,_ and _I know, I know, I know._ He drinks it anyway.

The piece ends, beautiful and devastating, and the line goes quiet. Elio stares at the phone, bracing himself for Oliver’s reaction. He hadn’t planned this and now that it’s done, he wonders where it’ll leave them. He takes a breath and picks up the receiver. 

“It’s—” Elio falters, unsure if he wants to pick at this wound, but in the end, he knows that Oliver must understand. “It’s us. That’s where my inspiration came from.”

Oliver closes his eyes and drops his head back against the sofa cushions. “I know,” he murmurs, his words slurring together just slightly. “I knew it the first time I heard it. Couldn’t catch my breath, I had to leave the theater, it was so — I don’t know how you do it,” he sighs. “It’s incredible. You’re incredible, Elio.”

“Oliver,” there’s a quiet sharpness to Elio’s voice that wasn’t there before. “What do you mean the first time you heard it? What theater?”

“I—” Oliver sits up, scrubs a hand over his face and forces himself to focus. “I’m sorry, I’ve been drinking. I shouldn’t—”

“You said you’ve heard it before,” Elio cuts him off. “You— were you at my recital?” 

Oliver drops his head forward, pressing the receiver against his forehead until he hears the plastic creak from the pressure. He drags it back to his ear, to Elio’s waiting silence. “Yes,” he breathes out. “I was there.”

Elio gets up and begins a slow pace across the room. “Just that once?” he asks, a practiced calm as he digs his nails into the palm of his hand. 

“No,” Oliver admits. “More than once,” he refills his glass and throws the scotch back in a harsh swallow.

“How many times?” Elio asks, feels his heart beating erratically in his chest, the anger burning behind his eyes. Feels himself shaking apart. 

Oliver lets out a deep breath. “Every time, Elio,” he mutters. “I was there every time I could possibly be there. Every performance. Every recital. Every showcase. All of them, for the past six years.”

The sound Elio makes is something between a laugh and a sob. Oliver absorbs it, another knot in his chest. 

“Six years,” Elio chokes out. His mind races back through countless dark auditoriums, blinking out into the audience. A sea of nameless faces for only a few scant seconds before turning his attention to the piano. There was never a single pair of eyes he could settle on.

“Why didn't you— we could have—” Elio's voice breaks as he struggles to keep from yelling. He clenches his teeth. “Six years, Oliver?”

Oliver closes his eyes and the room spins around him. He's in no condition to have this conversation.

“We hadn't spoken—”

“I thought you were _married_—” Elio interrupts. “I had to stop— if I'd known you'd never—”

"Elio, please—" Oliver scrubs at his face and feels a sudden wave of nausea come over him. "Give me a second, I have to put the phone down.” Not waiting for an answer, he heaves himself up and sluggishly makes his way into the kitchen. At the sink, he cups his palms under the faucet and slurps handfuls of cold water, then scoops them up and over his face, through his hair. Once, twice. He leans down and rests his forehead against his arms, breathes until the feeling passes. He fills a glass from the tap and goes back to the living room.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks into the phone, clears his throat.

“Are you okay? How much have you had to drink?” Elio asks, concerned, despite his growing aggravation.

Oliver clears his throat again, grimacing at the rawness there. He shakes his head against the receiver. “Yeah, I'm okay.”

Seconds tick by. He waits for the barrage of questions to start again, but there is only the sound of Elio's quiet breathing. Oliver slumps back against the sofa. “Elio, you were only 18 years old when you came to New York. I didn't want to be the reason you held yourself back from experiencing your life,” he sighs. “I’d already been through college, friendships, relationships and—” he waves a hand in the air. “You only get to do it one time. It would have been selfish of me to— I didn't want to ruin that for you, or become some kind of distraction that you'd regret later on,” he confesses.

There's a terrible silence on the line. The sleepy-calm effect of the alcohol has burned off and he's left with only a dull throb at his temples and a general heaviness in his limbs. 

“Elio? Are you still there?”

There's a sharp intake of breath before Elio's voice comes through, hoarse. “I think I need to go,” he says.

Oliver sits up too suddenly. His head spins and he winces, groaning as he squeezes his eyes shut. “Wait— wait,” he grits out.

_“Why?”_ Elio finally yells. _“What am I waiting for, Oliver?”_

“I— just— please, don't hang up yet,” Oliver hates the desperation in his voice.

Silence again. Oliver waits. 

“Are you sure that you're okay?” 

“Elio—”

“Promise that you'll drink a lot of water before you go to sleep,” Elio says, his tone is mix of disappointment and anger. Oliver can't stand knowing he’s the one who’s caused it. 

“I will,” he rasps out. “I promise. Can we—”

“Oliver,” Elio cuts him off. He sniffs, exhales. “I have to go.”

There’s a soft click and the line disconnects. 

—————

The phone rings close to 1:00 a.m. the following morning. Elio sucks in a breath at the first ring, holds it, closes his eyes, taps his foot against the floor. He breathes out at the fourth ring, rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, fights every instinct in his body, every twitch of muscle in him that wants to pick up, breathe Oliver’s name down the line. Scream at him.

He stares at the phone until the ringing stops, drops his head forward and tugs at his hair. He won’t be able to get back to work. He tips the fallboard down, dragging himself away from the piano and closing the lights in the room as he leaves. He’s halfway down the hall when he hears it — Oliver’s voice, a low slurred rumble coming from his father’s office. 

Elio frowns, heartbeat rising to his throat as he hurries down the hall. From the doorway he sees the blink of the answering machine, a message currently being recorded. Oliver’s soft, drunken baritone echoing into the empty room.

“You were wearing a black suit,” he murmurs. “And your hair had gotten longer. Not like it is now— or the last time I— just a little bit longer, so it fell in front of your eyes. There was one curl that kept brushing your eyelashes — I could tell it was bothering you the whole time, could see you trying to blow it out of the way while you were playing. That’s how I knew I was too close. The closest I ever sat was that first night,” he sighs, sounds lost at the memory.

It’s a moment before Elio understands what he’s hearing, feels the hot sting of tears behind his eyes. 

“I thought I could— I thought just the one time would be—” Oliver sniffs. “I sat further back the second time. Beneath the mezzanine, it’s darker, you know,” there’s a clink of glass, the pour of liquid. A static silence as Oliver drinks. “You wore blue that night, not quite navy, just close. And you played Bach,” there’s a smile in his voice when he names the composer.

Elio covers his mouth, stifles the sob that escapes him. He creeps further into the room, quiet as though any sound he might make could possibly bring an end to Oliver’s confession. He sinks onto the plush sofa, curls his knees to his chest and goes still. Listens. 

Oliver recounts every performance, the detail exact and meticulous. He talks about Elio’s talent, his music, his presence on stage. Says things Elio has never noticed about himself, things nobody else has ever told him. With every word, Elio feels, more and more acutely, the pain of knowing how close Oliver has been — just a few feet, a wrong turn down a vacant hall, a glimpse of the audience at just the right moment. The thought of it makes him furious, and he wants that anger, feels entitled to it. And yet, and yet. 

The longer Oliver goes on, the more his voice wears thin. It gets harder for Elio to fight the urge to pick up the phone. To make sure he’s okay. He hates knowing how much he would give to reach out and touch Oliver right now, everything forgiven, everything forgotten. 

“I wonder if you’re listening,” Oliver says at some point. Elio has no idea how long it’s been. The room, the line, everything is deathly silent but for the spooling of the tape in the answering machine. 

Elio takes a trembling breath. He slides off the sofa and steps toward the phone, lays his fingers over the receiver. There’s a whisper sound of Oliver breathing, the quick inhalation before he’s about to speak, and suddenly the machine clicks loudly. The tape runs out; the call is disconnected. Elio watches the machine rewind, wonders if Oliver will call back, and realizes his hands are shaking.

He stays, quiet, still, in the dark room. The tape clicks forward and announces _One New Message_ in its robotic voice. Elio waits. Five minutes, ten minutes. The phone doesn’t ring again. He ejects the tape, brings it up to his bedroom and slips it into his walkman. Tugging his headphones over his ears, Elio falls onto his bed and lets it play from the beginning. Lets it play over and over, falls asleep to Oliver’s voice in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again: Promise I don't do unhappy endings. I won't even read unhappy endings.
> 
> Also: I've never been a (serious) music student, so Elio's whole PhD topic is just me pulling things out of thin air. No offense to anyone who really loves Juilliard. He does, too.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papa knows best.

Two nights go by and Oliver doesn’t call again. Elio spends most of his time at the piano, forcing himself to channel his energy into music. Sometimes he wonders if this is really how great artists are born — from the misery and strange sort of numbness that comes with heartache. He watches the silent phone from the corner of his eye. The anger had faded after the first morning, and now he’s left feeling hollow.

It’s the lost time that eats at him, overwhelms him as the numbers continue to breakdown in his head. Six years. Seventy six months. Three hundred thirty one weeks. Two thousand three hundred twenty days. The calculation of loss becomes an obsessive part of his day. How many conversations? How many shared silences? How many cups of coffee? How many nights together? Or mornings after? How much time have they wasted because Oliver chose to hide in plain sight? Or did Elio make the choice for both of them at the start? Cutting Oliver not-so-neatly out of his life, stepping through the space he’d left behind and never letting himself examine it too closely. And isn’t this — not calling, not speaking — just adding more wasted time to that ever-growing number of seconds between them? 

Elio thinks about what the past six years have been like. The people who’ve passed in and out of his life, his heart, his bed. Wonders if he’d change any of it, give it all up in exchange for Oliver. His seventeen year-old self would have agreed in a heartbeat. Traded it all, no questions asked, no thought to anything he might be sacrificing in return. 

Curling his fists against the last refrain, he sends up a mash of notes that echoes the clutter of his mind. He spins the piano stool around and slouches over to the sofa, collapsing into the cushions and tracing his fingers over the phone. Without picking up the receiver, he dials Oliver’s number, thinks of what to say, but all that comes to mind are numbers, time, dates. _This is how long I could have held you, this is how many hours we could have spent kissing, how many days I’ve missed seeing your face. _

Even as part of him is thinking this, something within him is screaming that he’s still throwing time away. _Every second that ticks by is another second I could have spent just talking to him, just hearing his voice._

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a car door slamming outside, feet crunching on the gravel path up to the house. He hears a murmur of voices and then the sweep of the front door swinging open. 

“Elio?” his mother calls out. “_Où es-tu?_”

Elio frowns, rushing up from the sofa with a quick glance at the clock. “Maman?” he hurries down the stairs to where his parents are unwrapping their scarves and unbuttoning their coats in the front hall. 

“Ah, _tesoro_, happy new year,” Annella coos. She cups Elio’s cheeks and pulls him close, lands a kiss to his forehead and pulls away to have a look at him. “_Tu ne dors pas assez,_” she observes. 

“_Je vais bien,_” Elio grumbles with a tiny smile. He threads his fingers with hers, pulls them from his face and kisses her cheek. “How was Paris?” he asks, leaning over to hug his father. 

“Extravagant!” Samuel chirps, followed by a happy giggle. “Your aunt and uncle send their love, and—” he looks at Annella. “A sweater, I believe?”

Annella nods, “Mmm, we’ll unpack it later, darling. Have you eaten?” she brushes past, calling out for Mafalda as she heads toward the kitchen. 

“How have things been here?” Samuel asks. 

Elio ducks his head, scratching at the back of his neck. He gives a noncommittal shrug, “Fine.”

Samuel cocks his head. “Well, that doesn’t sound entirely convincing.”

“It’s—” Elio sighs. “Nothing,” he shakes his head. “The usual. School work, prep work for my dissertation proposal. Just stress, I suppose.”

“Okay,” Samuel offers him a kind smile, grips Elio’s upper arm and squeezes. “If you need to talk or want me to look anything over before you go—”

Elio nods. “Thanks, papa.” 

—————

The phone rings shortly after they’ve finished dinner. For a moment, Elio feels as though his heart has plummeted into his stomach. His mother smiles at him from across the dinner table and he struggles to curve his lips up in return. 

“_Signora,_” Mafalda calls out from the living room. “_Telefono è per te._”

Annella excuses herself, slipping her earring from her ear as she goes to take the call. Elio lets out a deep breath, folds his arms on the table and sags against them. 

“Elio,” Samuel’s voice startles him after a few seconds of silence. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk?”

Elio’s eyes stray toward the living room, toward the sound of his mother’s voice on the phone, of Mafalda chatting with Anchise in the kitchen. He folds his lips into his mouth, puffs air through his nose. “Would it be okay if we go to your study?”

“Of course,” Samuel nods. He dabs at his beard with his napkin and drops it onto the table, pushing his chair away and nodding at Elio to join him. 

Elio flops heavily onto the sofa as Samuel closes the door behind them. He thinks back to the last time he and his father had discussed Oliver in this very room, how his dad had both surprised and overwhelmed him with the kindness, wisdom, and understanding in his words. 

Samuel edges around his desk, careful not to topple stacks of books and papers piled there, and tugs open the bottom drawer. He brings out a short bottle and two tumblers, arching his brow in question when he looks back at Elio.

“Please,” Elio nods quietly. 

“Must have been some holiday,” Samuel teases gently. He pours a small bit into each glass and hands one to Elio as he joins him on the sofa.

Elio nods mutely, staring at the glass. He circles the smooth rim with his thumb, as he considers how and where to start, knowing his father won’t press him to get there any sooner than he’s ready to.

“Things still going well with school?” Samuel asks. 

Elio nods. “Still disagreeing with professors on their chosen method of instruction, but otherwise, fine.”

Samuel chuckles. “I suppose that answers my question regarding the subject of your dissertation. And you’re still planning to leave Juilliard, yes?”

“I had been,” Elio chews at his bottom lip. “I am, still, I suppose. It’s just that I’m—” Elio puffs out a frustrated breath, drops his head back against the sofa. “Papa,” he begins quietly. “Why didn’t you and mom tell me that Oliver never got married?”

Samuel takes a deep breath and lets it out, nodding softly as he does so. “Elio,” he says, his voice quiet, but certain. “Your mother and I have given you the best we possibly can of this life, some might even say we’ve spoiled you,” he smiles faintly and shakes his head. “But you’ve never asked us for much on your own.”

Elio folds his lips into his mouth, nods silently, knows that in truth, he’s never had to ask for very much.

“You asked us not to tell you if we heard from Oliver, to let you move on, and—” Samuel holds a hand up when Elio opens his mouth to interrupt. “When we found out his engagement had been broken, you were already away at school. He didn’t tell us what had happened, just that the wedding had been called off. It could have been for any number of reasons — it could have been back on again in a few months. Your mother and I want every happiness for you, but neither of us had any intention of setting you up to have your heart broken a second time.”

Elio sniffs, wipes at his eyes and nose, nods again. He drags his thumb around the rim of his glass, lifts it and knocks the contents back. 

“I gather you two have spoken,” Samuel notes. 

“Several times,” Elio laughs without any mirth. “Did you know he’s been to all of my performances in New York?”

“Oh, Elio,” Samuel takes the glass from Elio’s hands, sets it aside with his own. “No, I promise you, I didn’t know that. ”

Elio stares down at his lap, tears he’s been holding back for days finally allowed to escape. “Six years, papa, I— we could’ve—” he cuts himself off with a broken sigh. 

“It might have ended after two,” Samuel notes. “Your life could be so vastly different right now, Elio, you can’t possibly know. Just as you can’t know what comes next.” Samuel reaches out and scrubs his hand over Elio’s hair, squeezes his shoulder. “I won’t tell you what to do, but in my experience, second chances are the rarest of gems. You can’t change what’s done, that time is gone, and it may hurt, but it’s gone. All that you can do is try and figure out how you want to move forward.”

Elio nods, closes his eyes and leans into his father, arms wrapping around his middle. 

“It will be all right,” Samuel smiles, hugging Elio tightly to him and pressing a kiss to his hair.

—————

Oliver lets nearly a week go by. He picks up the phone once each day, sometimes more than once. Sometimes he dials the numbers, hangs up before the call connects. Sometimes he simply touches the receiver, makes himself walk away. 

Elio hasn’t asked for time, hasn’t asked for space, there’s enough of both between them right now, as it is. The only thing holding him back is fear — fear that Elio won’t talk to him, fear that he will. He lets five days go by and he calls. 

The line connects on the third ring, answered with a jovial, “Pronto!” that takes Oliver by surprise.

“Pr- Pro,” he stammers out. “Hi— Happy New Year!”

“Oliver!” Samuel chuckles happily with excitement. “How lovely to hear from you! I’m sorry to have missed your call over the holidays, I trust Elio passed our best wishes along.”

“He did, of course,” Oliver swallows. “How was Paris? Did you and Annella enjoy your visit?”

“Oh yes, it was a wonderful trip. I do wish we could have talked Elio into joining us, but I suppose we’ll just have to try harder to convince him next time. It’s good to be home, in any regard. And you? How were your holidays?”

Oliver puffs out a breath, wonders what, if anything, Elio would have told his father. He and Samuel have spoken about Elio over the years, mostly in passing — just here and there updates, usually about school. Samuel never pressed, never outright asked, but Oliver’s relationship with his son is a kind of unspoken secret between them. He’s always known that Oliver cares, deeply, for Elio, and for whatever reason, he seems glad of it. 

“I—” Oliver clears his throat, suddenly dry. “I spoke with Elio a few times, actually.”

“Yes, Elio mentioned that,” Samuel says, giving nothing away. “I’ve always hoped you two would reconnect.”

“I know you have, Pro, and I appreciate that, but… I’m afraid I’ve—” Oliver sighs. “I think I’ve made a mess of things.”

“Ah, well I’m sure it’s nothing that can’t be solved if you’re both willing to listen,” Samuel replies, and Oliver understands that Elio’s already spoken with his father. He selfishly wonders if Samuel spared a kind word for him.

“I’d like to think you’re right,” Oliver mutters. “I was hoping to catch him, actually. Is he available?”

“Oh,” and on that singular vowel, Samuel’s tone changes. The comforting assuredness replaced with a hint of dismay, confusion. “I’m sorry, Oliver, he’s already gone.”

“Gone,” Oliver repeats, somewhat uselessly. 

“Back to New York,” Samuel explains. “He left yesterday morning, in fact. I’m sure he’s settled in at home by now. I thought he’d have told you.”

Oliver closes his eyes. Elio is in New York. No impenetrable long distance lines to cross, no six hour time difference to stretch. They’re separated by a bunch of city blocks. A subway ride. 

“I didn’t know,” Oliver says, quietly. 

“I’m sure he’ll reach out,” Samuel offers. “He’s often very busy on his first few days back in the city.”

Oliver forces a smile into his voice, “Of course. I remember those days.”

“Don’t we all!” Samuel laughs. 

“Okay,” Oliver sighs lightly. “I don’t want to keep you.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Samuel insists.

“I appreciate that. Please give my love to Annella.”

“I certainly will,” Samuel promises. “And Oliver,” he adds. “Give him a few days. He’ll come around.”

“I will, thank you. Goodnight, Pro.”

“Goodnight, Oliver!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, the next one is the one you're all waiting for. Can't even begin to explain my level of anxiety about it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No more long distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Hope this works.

It’s a Wednesday morning in the second week of January. Elio’s been back in the city for nearly a week and Oliver hasn’t heard from him. He’s considered calling Samuel, asking for an address or a New York phone number, but knows it would be just another breach of Elio’s trust.

Oliver sits at the edge of his bed and sighs. It’s still dark out — the time of day where it’s too early to be awake, but there’s no hope of going back to sleep. After staring at the clock for few minutes, he sluggishly tugs on a pair of sweats and shoves his feet into his untied sneakers, half-heartedly preparing to go for a run.

He swings the front door open, unprepared for the bitter morning chill and for Elio, pacing on his front stoop.

There’s a frozen moment — both of them stunned, rooted to the spot by the other’s sudden appearance. A complicated mix of emotions cloud Elio’s face, but it’s only fleeting, and they’re quickly shuttered behind an impassive gaze. Oliver wonders when he learned to do that.

“It’s four thirty in the morning,” Oliver finally manages.

Elio shrugs, “I couldn’t sleep.” He sounds as exhausted as Oliver feels.

“Me neither,” Oliver admits. 

“So you were going to run?” Elio reaches out to pinch the fabric of Oliver’s sweatshirt. “Is this how you bundle up for the cold?”

Oliver gingerly lifts Elio’s fingers from his shirt and drags a thumb across the lines of his palm. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

Elio’s expression is pained, but he doesn’t pull away. “Can we—” he nods toward the door.

“Yes, of course, I’m—” Oliver shakes his head and releases Elio's hand. “I’m sorry, please come in.”

The ceiling lamp is on in the entryway, casting a dim light along the hall and into the rooms beyond. Oliver feels oddly displaced in his own home as he toes his sneakers off by the front door. He watches the trail of Elio’s fingers dragging along the wall, catching and stopping before he turns and walks into the living room.

Elio sheds his black peacoat and lays it over the arm of the sofa. He makes a slow circle of the room, stopping in front of a bookshelf that takes up most of the far wall. He runs his fingers over the spines of tattered paperbacks, heavy leather tomes, small volumes of poetry. The collection excites him, though he’s reluctant to show it. Instead, he silently catalogues the titles he’d like to come back to. For a bizarre moment, he wishes Oliver would leave. He wants to touch everything, press his face into sheets, pillows, towels — open every closet, every drawer and sink his hands inside.

Oliver lingers behind him, waiting for words to come. Weeks later and he still doesn’t know where to start. He flicks on the lamp in the corner and Elio hums in appreciation, tilts a volume out of its place on the shelf and inspects the cover. 

“I almost didn’t come here,” he says, replacing the book and moving down to the next shelf. “Talked myself out of it three times before this morning.”

“What changed your mind?” Oliver asks.

“I had no reason not to,” Elio shrugs, finally turning around. “I was just wasting time. I didn’t want to waste any more.”

Oliver swallows the lump in his throat. “Okay.”

“I need you to understand that you and I— that what happened between us didn’t ruin anything for me,” Elio says calmly. 

Oliver shakes his head, “You don’t have to—”

“No, I do,” Elio interrupts. “I just—” he shakes his head. “It’s not fair that— you don’t get to make decisions about the future you think I should have, based on—”

“That’s not—”

“It is— it _is_! You’re so afraid of being selfish, but you don’t realize—” Elio cuts himself off, hears his voice rising, doesn’t want any of it. He closes his eyes, breathes, opens them slowly. “You said you didn’t want to keep me from experiencing my life, and you haven't.” He pauses, drags a hand through his hair and shrugs, “I’ve had fun, believe me, it’s been a good six years. I’ve known and loved people that will always have a place in my heart, maybe in my life, but… I found out years ago where all my missing pieces were. Nobody else is ever going to fit.”

“You can’t—” Oliver scrubs a hand over his face, shaking his head again. “Elio, you’re still so young — how can you possibly be so sure? There’s so much more to—”

“I’m the same age now as you were when we met,” Elio challenges. “You were engaged just months after leaving my bed. Why did you call it off?”

Oliver slumps against the wall, digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “What do you want me to say?”

“Just be honest with me, Oliver. I can’t accept anything less than everything, because I’ve already tasted it. I don’t _want_ anything else — it would only be settling, and I can’t do that now if it means giving up on you forever. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for that.”

“Elio—” 

“You’ve never been a distraction,” Elio rasps, taking a step closer. “You’re so much more than that. Please tell me you don’t think of us that way.”

“No,” Oliver whispers. “No, I don’t.” 

“The morning after we first slept together, you told me that you didn’t want me to regret anything… And now I can’t stop thinking about that moment — like it was some sort of omen. Like… like I should have grabbed you right then and told you, but I don’t know how I—” Elio tugs at his hair and groans in frustration. Giving up the last threads of his composure, he lets out a trembling breath. “You have this notion that you’re obligated to keep me from a lifetime of regretting you, but… there is no reality where I could ever regret you. I just miss you, Oliver,” he shrugs, a tiny smile despite the shine of tears in his eyes. “Do you regret—” 

“No,” Oliver reaches him before the words are out, warm palms cupping his jaw, thumbs gently pressed to the soft bow of Elio’s mouth. “No, no, no,” he breathes urgently into the space between them. He presses their foreheads together. “In no reality.”

Oliver’s hands drift — pushing through Elio’s hair, cradling the back of his head, fingers skimming down his neck. Elio sighs, a tiny sound escapes him and he wraps his arms around Oliver’s waist. They’re so close, but not close enough.

Tipping his head down, Oliver grazes his nose against Elio’s. “I’ve missed hearing you,” he whispers, breath ghosting over Elio’s lips. “Not just your voice but,” he presses his mouth to the spot in front of Elio’s ear, breathing in. Giving in. Elio nearly sobs with relief. “Every sound you make,” he murmurs, walking them slowly until Elio’s back is pinned against the living room wall.

Elio clutches at him, fists bunched in the fabric of his sweatshirt. “_Oliver_—” he arches forward, pushing their hips together and Oliver’s breath stutters out of him.

Oliver pulls away, presses Elio back against the wall, keeping him still. “I’ve missed the scent of your skin,” he whispers, and buries his face in the curve of Elio’s neck, breathing deep. “The scent of us together,” he rasps and leans in to grind their hips together once, twice, again.

“_Fuck_,” Elio hisses and lets his head fall back against the wall. He curls both hands into Oliver’s hair and shifts to slot Oliver’s thigh between his own.

Oliver lifts his head and brings a hand back to Elio’s face. He gently draws the tip of his index finger across Elio’s bottom lip, a slow drag back and forth. Elio darts his tongue out, whining in frustration when Oliver slides his hand away.

He slips both hands under Elio’s shirt, palms flat on the heated skin of his back. “I’ve missed touching you,” Oliver whispers, lips moving against Elio’s ear. He lifts the hem of Elio’s shirt, higher, higher, higher, until finally Elio yanks it over his own head and hurls it to the floor.

Oliver immediately curls forward, knees dipping low, as he presses a kiss to the center of Elio’s chest. He mouths a wet trail upward, relishing every sound Elio makes in response.

“I’ve missed the way you taste,” Oliver murmurs, and flicks his tongue into the hollow of Elio’s throat.

What little patience Elio was managing to hold on to finally shatters. He tugs at Oliver’s hair, pulling up, up, up until their lips drag together. He shivers at the feel of it, open, wet, sloppy. Not a kiss. Not yet. He rakes his nails over Oliver’s scalp and whispers, “Say it.”

Oliver smiles, open-mouthed and overjoyed, the beam of it lighting up his face. Elio can’t help himself. He leans in and swipes his tongue over the pearls of Oliver’s front teeth, pulling away before he can follow. “Saaaay it,” Elio urges.

Oliver strokes his hand over Elio’s cheek. He leans in, presses their foreheads together, breathes, “_Oliver_,” drawn out and soft, like warm relief into Elio’s mouth. 

Elio surges forward and kisses him. 

“Get this off,” he mumbles, pulling at Oliver’s sweatshirt until Oliver reaches back and yanks it over his head. They fall against one another, skin to skin. Elio winds his arms around Oliver’s neck and mouths along his jaw, murmurs “_Elio, Elio, Elio,_” until Oliver groans and hoists him off the ground. 

With ankles locked around Oliver’s waist, Elio clutches at him. Fingers, hands, arms, thighs holding tight, tighter, tightest. Kisses him until he’s breathless, dizzy, comes away on a gasp of his own name. One of Oliver’s hands splays over his lower back, holds him in place, while the other sweeps up to cup his neck, jaw, thumb along the curve of his ear. Elio watches, quiet, rapt, as Oliver’s eyes follow the path of his own fingers, relearning, remembering. 

They’re kissing, again, and Elio doesn’t know when they started, why they’d ever stopped. Everything feels warm, liquid, slow. Oliver moves, arms wrapped around Elio’s back, as he carries him away from the wall, out of the room. Elio opens his eyes enough to register the staircase, the doorway, and then Oliver is lowering him onto a bed, leaving a trail of kisses down his neck, chest, stomach.

He sits up when Oliver pulls back, arms outstretched, hands reaching for the lost touch. Oliver chuckles, leans in and kisses him, quick and fast. “You’re just the same,” he murmurs, laughing into Elio’s mouth. 

Oliver sits back on his heels, lifts Elio’s feet and tugs his sneakers and socks off, tosses them to the floor. Elio fumbles impatiently with the button and zipper of his jeans, yanking them open, raising his hips when Oliver grips the fabric and pulls. 

The width of Oliver’s hand curls around his bare thigh and Elio sighs at the contact. He reaches out, brings Oliver back down to him, smooths his hands down Oliver’s back, beneath the elastic bands of his sweatpants and underwear, over the round curve of his ass. Splays both palms wide over his cheeks and squeezes, a helpless laugh escaping him as he does.

“What?” Oliver asks, smiling and giddy. 

“Nothing,” Elio shakes his head, wriggles against him. 

Oliver snorts softly. “Still?”

Elio presses his face to the warm scratch of Oliver’s neck, breathes in, breathes out. “Always,” he drags the word, long and wet against Oliver’s skin, pulls him closer, shoves at the bunched fabric of his sweatpants, pushing them lower, lower, until Oliver’s kicking them off with a huff. Elio grins, brings a hand to his mouth and swipes the flat of his tongue over his palm, drags up to the pads of his fingers. Oliver’s lips part on a tiny gasp as Elio licks into his mouth, drops his hand and slips it into the front of his briefs. As Elio’s fingers wrap around his cock.

“Fuck,” Oliver groans, thrusts forward into the warm slick of Elio’s fist. 

Elio suddenly pulls back, brow furrowed, reddened lips open in question. Hand frozen in place, much to Oliver’s frustration. 

“What?” Oliver asks, begins pushing himself away. He stops when Elio’s hands fly to his hips. “What’s wrong?”

“No— nothing, it’s silly. I just—” Elio hooks his index finger into the band of Oliver’s briefs and tugs, lets it snap back against his ass. “You used to wear boxers. You switched.”

Oliver laughs, a small quiet thing that blooms into a full bodied rumble, shaking him. Shaking them both. He drops himself down, head buried in Elio’s shoulder, and laughs, laughs, laughs. 

Elio laughs, helplessly, with him. “Why is that so funny?”

“It’s not,” Oliver shakes his head, props himself up on his elbows. “I was about to go running, remember?”

Elio’s mouth drops open, a silent _oh!_ of realization that curves back to into a smile as Oliver grins down at him.

“You can check my drawers later, if you like,” he murmurs. 

“I will,” Elio nods. “I like.” 

Oliver kisses him, rocks his hips down, a slow, steady drag, swallows the gasp he draws from Elio’s lips, and does it again, again, again. Until Elio’s moaning into his mouth. He shifts back and grips the waistband of Elio’s boxers, grins when Elio lifts his hips and helps to shove them down and off. He slides his own briefs down and crawls forward, kicking them off his legs as he kisses the insides of Elio’s knees. 

Elio writhes against the sheets, one hand clutching at Oliver’s shoulder, the other fisted in his own hair. Oliver decorates the insides of his trembling thighs with butterfly kisses, wraps a hand around his cock and squeezes, delights in the groan it pulls from Elio’s chest. He drags his fist up, swipes over the head, feels the wet spill of precum trickling through his fingers. Elio closes his eyes, hisses when Oliver slides his hand back down, strokes up again, starts a rhythm. His hips rise off the mattress, chasing the warmth of Oliver’s fist, fucking up into it as he moves. His breath coming faster, nails biting into Oliver’s skin.

“Fuck,” Elio grinds out, hand suddenly batting at Oliver’s wrist, pulling desperately at his hair. “Oliver, I want— please—” he slurs out. 

Oliver follows Elio’s hands, lets himself be moved up, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake. “What?” he murmurs, lips vibrating against Elio’s skin. “What do you want?” He brushes sweaty curls from Elio’s forehead, kisses the soft wrinkle between his brows, traces his lips down the slope of his nose. 

Elio opens his eyes as Oliver settles, feels the full weight of him gently sinking into the cradle of his hips. He skims the tips of his fingers over Oliver’s flanks, tilts his head up and nips at his bottom lip, licks his mouth open, kisses him. Oliver’s hips roll forward, the hard, heat of his cock finding friction between their bellies. Elio tilts his hips up, wants him lower, wants him inside. Suddenly overwhelmed with how long it’s been. With not waiting a second longer. 

“Fuck me,” he rasps into Oliver’s mouth. “I want you to fuck me.”

Oliver nods, heart fluttering madly in his chest. He kisses Elio softly, licking into his mouth again, lets himself get lost in it for a few seconds longer, then pushes up onto his knees and leans over to reach into the bedside table. Elio watches as Oliver fishes his hand around in the drawer and tosses a small bottle of lube into the sheets. Elio takes the bottle and rolls it into his palm. “Fuck,” Oliver mutters, shoving the drawer closed and moving to get off the bed. “I probably have condoms in the bathroom, I’ll—”

Elio grabs his wrist before he can climb off of the bed. “No, I don’t—”

Oliver stills, studies his face carefully. “Elio—”

“We talked about it,” Elio nods, licks his lips. “We’ve both been tested. We both know we’re clean, right?”

“Yes,” Oliver agrees. “Yes, but we should still—”

“There’s nothing else to say,” Elio shakes his head. “Not about this.”

Oliver eases himself back down, cups Elio’s face in his hands. For a moment, the span of a heartbeat, he sees Elio beneath him as he was that first night. Flushed and nervous and determined to leap off that cliff with both eyes open. Together. Oliver dips his head, kisses him, lingers there for a breath, two, three. Elio reaches up and curls his hand over Oliver’s, moves it from his cheek. He uncaps the bottle and squeezes lube over Oliver’s fingers. 

Grinning, Elio tilts his head up, catches Oliver’s lip between his teeth and pushes their hands between his thighs. He drops his head back when Oliver’s fingers circle his hole, lets himself fall against the sheets, arching off the mattress as the pad of one finger presses into him. 

Oliver pulls away, rocks back on his heels, lets one hand drift idly over Elio’s chest, thumbs his nipples, strokes the curve of his hip. His eyes flick back and forth, watching his finger sink in and out of the too-tight heat of Elio’s body, watching Elio’s fists curl in his own hair, the pink flush of his cheeks, the curve of his lips. Oliver pulls out, pushes back in with two fingers, rubs his other hand over Elio’s thigh. He grazes his palm over Elio’s cock where it lays leaking on his belly, drags a clear streak over pale, trembling skin. 

“Fuck,” Elio groans, turns his head against the pillow. He smooths a hand over his chest, skims down to find Oliver’s fingers laying flat below his sternum, links their hands together. “One more, now,” he breathes. “Then you.”

Oliver presses a kiss to Elio’s knee, moves his fingers out and in, slow, curls them and grins when Elio cries out. 

“One more,” Elio insists, pushing his toes into Oliver’s thigh. “Come on.”

“Okay,” Oliver murmurs, pulls his fingers out again. He slips his hand free from Elio’s grip, reaches for the lube, squeezes a few drops out and lets the bottle fall to the sheets. He shifts closer, massages his fingers around the lube-slicked pucker of Elio’s hole, keeps them moving while he lets one finger dip in, just a tip, and slide back out, does it slow, over and over again until Elio’s hips are moving in a rhythmic circle. He pushes all three fingers in, presses up, moves them in a slow circle until Elio’s breath changes. 

“Please,” he gasps. 

Oliver pulls his fingers out, crawls forward, dropping soft kisses over Elio’s hips, belly, arms. Elio’s breathing slows with each touch of Oliver’s lips. He whispers _Elio Elio Elio_ as Oliver gets closer to his mouth, kisses the sound from his lips. 

Oliver nudges Elio’s forehead with his own, waits until his eyes blink open, searches them and finds none of the lovestruck teenager from six years ago, the desperate longing, the uncertainty. The blinders held precariously in place, guarding him from the world outside, from time, from summer’s end. What he sees, instead, is a flame — unexpected, and sure. Ready for this. Now. Us. Oliver wonders if it’s catching, if it’ll burn right through him. He wants it to. Needs it to. 

He falls forward, moaning his name into Elio’s mouth as he pushes inside, feels Elio’s arms, legs, everything tighten around him.

With a fist curled into the back of Oliver’s hair, Elio smiles up at him. “Okay,” he murmurs.

Oliver smiles back, feels tension bleeding out of his limbs, “Okay,” he echoes. And knows that, for now, it finally is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They still have a lot to talk about. (Imagine that sentence with the clap emoji between each word.) ....but this was inevitable. *runs and hides*


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. And then some.

“I don’t want to fall asleep,” Elio mumbles against the curve of Oliver’s neck.

Oliver turns, presses his mouth to the top of Elio’s head. “How come?”

Elio burrows closer, wants every inch of Oliver’s skin touching his, wants their warm, sweat-sticky bodies inexorably tangled. “In case I’m already dreaming.”

Oliver smooths his hand down Elio’s side, stopping to pinch hard at the rise of his hip. Elio jolts and hisses. He plants his elbow on the mattress and leans over Oliver. Even in the dim light of the bedroom, Oliver can see his aggrieved frown.

“To wake you, in case you were dreaming,” Oliver grins, with a lazy shrug of his shoulder.

Elio’s lips slide into a lopsided smile. He props his forearm on Oliver's chest and observes him with heavy-lidded eyes.

“What?” Oliver croaks, smiling back helplessly.

“Nothing,” Elio shakes his head. He bows to rub his cheek against the thick stubble at Oliver’s jaw. “I like this,” he murmurs.

Oliver hums. “You’ve got chafe marks all over you,” he traces a noticeable patch of red down the pale line of Elio’s shoulder. 

“Mm,” Elio sighs. “S’why I like it,” pressing a swift kiss to Oliver’s chest, he shifts, tugs until they're curled on their sides, face to face. “You haven't been sleeping,” he says, as he smooths the tip of his finger over the darkened skin beneath Oliver's left eye.

Oliver blinks slowly, gives a minute shake of his head. “You?”

“No,” Elio admits. He slips his hand over Oliver’s eyes and whispers, “Close.” Oliver grins and Elio leans forward to kiss his teeth. “Close your eyes,” he says, lifting his hand when he feels Oliver's lashes brush his palm.

He traces the shape of Oliver's lips until they curve into a soft smile. “I thought we were trying to sleep,” Oliver murmurs, eyes still closed.

It hits Elio suddenly, like a wave crashing into his chest. _Oliver._ He’s never dared to imagine having this again. He lets his fingers travel — the dip of his chin, curve of his jaw, the soft of his earlobe, slope of his nose. Gentle touches to spots he’s loved so well and missed for so long.

“We are,” Elio hushes him. He leans in and touches his lips to the delicate skin of Oliver’s eyelids, one, then the other. 

“Okay,” Oliver whispers.

Elio settles quietly, slips his hand into Oliver’s on the mattress between them, palm to palm, fingers curled together. He drifts to sleep watching Oliver’s face in the blue-black predawn light. 

—————

The morning is grey, no sunlight pouring through to rouse them from the warmth of bed. They doze, on and off for a while, curling and uncurling around one another, waking in the early afternoon to make love again — this time so torturously slow that their bodies tremble with the effort. 

When Elio comes, Oliver is transfixed. His hips stutter to a halt as he watches Elio’s face, committing his bitten lips and furrowed brow to memory.

“Don’t stop,” Elio rasps, when he’s spent and Oliver is still straining over him. He rocks down, clenching around Oliver’s cock. 

Oliver groans, rolls his hips and finds his rhythm again. He curls both fists into Elio’s hair and slumps forward, panting into the curve of his neck.

Elio can feel him getting closer — the tension in his body, urgency in his movement, the way his rhythm begins to falter. He grips the sides of Oliver’s face, tugging so they’re eye to eye. 

“I want to see you, too,” Elio whispers. 

When he finally comes, a broken cry escapes Oliver’s lips. Elio kisses him then, swallows the sound greedily, imagines it echoing through his chest, bouncing off each of his ribs. 

—————

When Elio wakes, Oliver is watching him with a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He rolls away, throwing his arms over his head and curling his toes, a pleased noise escapes him as he stretches his limbs. He curls back toward Oliver, who’s still observing him, now with a tiny smile on his face.

Elio wrinkles his nose. “What?”

“Nothing,” Oliver grins. “Are you hungry?”

As if on cue, Elio’s stomach sends up an impressively loud rumble. Oliver’s eyes go comically wide. 

“Have you been lying here listening to my stomach growl?” Elio laughs, rubbing a hand over his belly.

Oliver shrugs. “It’s been very talkative.”

Before Elio can reply, his stomach gurgles again, louder this time. Oliver guffaws at the sound, rolling forward and burying his face in Elio’s shoulder. 

“Stop,” Elio laughs with him. “We should eat something. It must be late already.”

“I think I have some English Muffins,” Oliver says, trying to recall the contents of his refrigerator. 

“Hmm,” Elio sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and releases it with a loud smack. “Do you have butter and jam?”

“I should,” Oliver rolls onto his back, stretches, and sits up. “I’m out of coffee, but I can run out and get some. There’s a place on the corner.” 

Elio yawns widely and nods, “Okay.” He scoots up to lean against the headboard while Oliver grabs his discarded sweatpants off the floor and casts his eyes about the room. 

“I think your shirt is—”

“Yep, definitely left it behind,” Oliver’s lips curve into smile. He looks down at himself and wrinkles his nose, scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’m going to clean up and then head out. Won’t be very long.”

Elio hums quietly in reply and curls back down into the bedding, tugging Oliver’s pillow against his face. He listens to the soft sounds of Oliver moving around the room until he dozes off again. 

Oliver takes a quick shower, all the while telling himself that he can’t get too comfortable — not until he and Elio truly finish talking. When he walks back into the bedroom and sees Elio asleep in his bed, there’s a bloom of warmth in his chest. It’s intense, almost overwhelming. This feeling is something Oliver knows he wants — not just once, or occasionally, but all the time. He owes Elio some answers though, and what comes after that is something they’ll need to figure out — hopefully together.

He plants his hands on either side of Elio and leans in to drop a kiss on his shoulder. Elio swiftly rolls to the side, catching his lips and startling a laugh out of him. 

“You brushed your teeth,” he mumbles into Oliver’s mouth. “’M sorry, I still have morning breath.”

Oliver kisses him again, smiling into it. “I don’t mind,” he says. “But you can use my toothbrush if you’d like.”

“Thank you,” Elio grins and leans in for another kiss. And another.

One more and Oliver makes himself stand up. “I’ve left some clean towels in the bathroom in case you want to shower. I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay,” Elio sits up and shuffles toward the edge of the bed.

“Your clothes are still—” they both look at the trail of clothes scattered on the floor. 

“Everywhere,” Elio chuckles, scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

Oliver laughs softly and points toward a tall chest of drawers against the far wall. “I have tee shirts, sweatpants, and such in there. Help yourself to anything.”

Elio nods, stretching his arms over his head. “Sounds good,” he says around an impressive yawn. He tosses the sheets aside and heads toward the bathroom. Sensing Oliver’s gaze trailing him, he turns and throws him a suggestive grin.

Shaking his head, Oliver smiles. “Later,” he says, and forces himself to leave.

—————

The apartment is quiet when Elio gets out of the shower. He wraps a towel around his waist and steps out of the bedroom, straining to hear any noise from the rooms below, but he can’t tell if Oliver’s come home yet. The upstairs hall is chilly, so he hurries back into the bedroom, opening the bureau Oliver had shown him and sifting through it. He smiles when he finds threadbare navy sweatpants, softened and frayed at the hems with age. Elio drops his towel on the floor. He doesn’t bother with underwear, loves how the thin cotton feels feather light when it slips over his skin. There’s a tug in his gut, a teenage longing for Oliver to be all around him and inside of him at once. 

He shivers, shakes the gloom of nostalgia away, because he can have Oliver, now. _For how long,_ a part of him wonders, _today, tomorrow, until we go back our real lives again?_

He sighs, drags both hands through his damp hair and takes a Columbia U sweatshirt from the drawer. It’s soft and hooded and when Elio brings it to his face, it smells like a faint mix of detergent and Oliver. He slips it over his head and pulls the hood up. The ribbed cuffs of the sleeves fall past his hands and are slightly worn, with little holes at the seams of the soft cotton. He bunches the fabric into his fists and curls his toes into the hems of the sweatpants that have slightly pooled at his feet. Oliver, all around him. 

Elio recalls, so vividly, standing in his bedroom, _their bedroom,_ and pressing Oliver’s red bathing suit to his face, inhaling, kissing, licking it. Wanting to devour it. To devour him. Terrified that stepping into that suit, climbing between the bed sheets with it, would be the closest he ever got. He remembers wishing for more and whispering his desires into the cool fabric of Oliver’s pillows. 

He wraps his arms around himself, looks around the room. He’s in Oliver’s clothes. Oliver’s house. Slept in Oliver’s bed. He knows that whatever fears Oliver’s harboring can’t have been so easily vanquished, despite the little they’d spoken of it all last night. There’s more to come, and Oliver may still try to push him away. He sucks in a breath, stealing himself for the possibility of an uphill battle. 

Elio picks his towel up off the floor and hangs it in the bathroom to dry. When he steps back out, his eyes sweep around the room — bed, bureau, nightstands, lamps. There’s a door beside the bathroom, slightly ajar. He nudges it the rest of the way and steps into Oliver’s closet, weaves his fingers between the sleeves of sport coats, dress shirts, swoops his hand through a hanger full of ties. He skims his big toe along the neat row of dress shoes on the closet floor, a small collection of oxfords and loafers in black and brown. One pair is more well-worn than all the others, leather softened and creased, heels scuffed. Elio slips his feet into Oliver’s shoes, rising onto his toes to peer at a shelf of folded sweaters. 

There’s a faint thud from downstairs — the sound of the front door closing, keys jingling as Oliver moves from room to room. Elio carefully toes the shoes from his feet and nudges the door closed. The hall outside the bedroom is longer than he’d noticed last night. He counts two doors to the left of the bedroom, one open and one closed. There’s also the partially open door to what seems to be a guest bathroom at the end of the hall. 

He takes a moment to poke his head into the room next door and finds a cozy office — perhaps the most personal looking space Elio remembers seeing in Oliver’s home, so far. He pads into the room quietly, plodding along the perimeter of a soft, woven rug in the center of the floor. A large antique desk faces the window onto the brownstone’s shared yard. It’s cluttered, but neat — a cordless phone unit, a few small piles of books, a crisp folder full of papers, a lined notepad covered with the artful, sweeping curves of Oliver’s handwriting. At the left corner, just below the window, there’s a framed photo — a stunning redhead in a wedding gown, Oliver in a tux, both of them with glowing smiles as they dance in a crowd of onlookers. Elio lifts the heavy, silver frame and brings it close to his face, traces his finger over the smiling woman’s cheek, over Oliver’s arm around her waist. He chews at his lip and puts the photo back in its place, turning away from the desk. 

There’s a small, but comfortable looking sofa against the adjacent wall, a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf just beside the door — Elio knows this must be where Oliver spends the majority of his time at home. It’s an easy image to conjure: Oliver reclined in the desk chair, crossed legs kicked up and resting at the corner. 

The aroma of coffee wafts into the room and Elio inhales deeply. He looks around the office and wishes he could pull a novel from the shelf and curl onto the sofa, read quietly while Oliver works on his next book, grades his papers. He glances at the photo on the desk once more, drags a hand over his face and heads downstairs.

—————

Oliver hums softly as he separates english muffins and sticks them into the toaster. He turns at the sound of bare feet padding across the kitchen floor. For a moment, he’s dumbstruck, eyes combing over Elio from head to toe. 

With a frown, Elio pushes the hood of the sweatshirt off and gestures to the clothes he’s wearing. “Is this okay? They were in that drawer, and I thought—”

Oliver shakes his head quickly. “Fine, it’s fine,” he moves in to cup Elio’s cheeks, kiss him. “I like it,” he murmurs against his temple. 

Elio turns his head, angling for another kiss, but his stomach spoils the moment with a noisy rumble. Oliver throws his head back and laughs.

“Feed me, then,” he smirks, shoving him away.

“It’ll be ready in a minute,” Oliver promises with a nod toward the toaster. “Coffee?”

“Please,” Elio gratefully accepts the mug Oliver passes to him. He takes a sip and wrinkles his nose at the taste. 

Oliver can’t help but snort when he spots the look on his face. “Mr. Coffee isn’t up to your fine Italian standards?” he teases. “I’d think you’d be used to it by now.”

Elio shrugs. “Some things you can’t get used to,” he sighs. “Besides, I have a Moka pot. I don’t have to drink sub-par coffee.”

Oliver guffaws. “That metal contraption Mafalda uses, I suppose?” 

“It’s the Italian way,” Elio nods, solemnly. 

“I guess you’ll have to make the coffee next time,” Olive suggests, staring into his own half empty mug.

Elio waits until Oliver’s eyes find his again. “Next time,” he agrees. 

There’s a certainty in his tone that Oliver wishes he could carve into himself. He sets his coffee down on the counter and reaches out, curling his hand into Elio’s hair. Elio shuffles in, arms circling Oliver’s waist. 

Oliver sighs against his forehead. “We still have a lot to talk about.”

“I know,” Elio tightens his embrace for a moment and then pulls away. “Let’s eat.”

—————

They sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the small coffee table in the living room. The silence is familiar, comfortable, as their knees bump and overlap each time one of them leans forward to take another bite of his breakfast. The third time it happens, Oliver smiles and wraps his hand around Elio’s foot, pressing his thumb into the arch and squeezing when Elio wriggles his toes. 

At his last bite, Elio sighs happily and slumps against the foot of the sofa. 

“Can I get you anything else?” Oliver asks. 

Elio shakes his head, “‘M full,” he says, rubbing absently at his belly. “Thank you.”

Oliver nods and gets up, stacking their plates to bring into the kitchen. When Elio moves to help, he waves him off, “Stay, stay, I’ve got it.” 

Elio shrugs a shoulder and drops back down as Oliver clears table. In the kitchen, he leaves the dishes in the sink, and turns on the tap. He plants his hands on the counter and takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and slowly releases it. He shakes out his shoulders, grabs two glasses from the cabinet and fills them with water, shutting the tap and heading back into the living room. 

Oliver hands one of the glasses to Elio, then turns and lifts the end of the coffee table they’ve been sitting at, rotating it ninety degrees, so the space in front of them is empty. Elio watches curiously as he sits back down on the floor and stretches his legs out in front of him, sighing at the satisfying pull in his calves. 

“What was that?” Elio half laughs, nodding toward the table.

“Oh,” Oliver chuckles, waving at the open space. “I do it when I want to stretch my legs out.”

Still smiling, Elio quirks a brow, “And you can’t do that on the sofa?”

“I always feel like I have more room down here,” Oliver shrugs, then, after a few seconds, a laugh. “What?”

Elio realizes, belatedly, that he’s staring. Charmed by an unexpected quirk and delighted to witness to it. “Nothing,” he shakes his head. 

Oliver slowly turns the water glass around in his hands, staring into it. “You asked why I called off my engagement,” he starts. 

Elio nods, eyes wide and questioning.

“There were a lot of little reasons,” Oliver admits. “Things that, in retrospect, should have felt more important. But neither of us saw them in the beginning, or, perhaps we pretended not to see them. So they piled up, and we set them aside.”

Elio frowns. “How do you mean?”

Oliver takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Kim and I — we’ve been friends our entire lives. When we were in high school, we fell into this kind of convenient relationship. It was easy and familiar, we knew each other so well, our families were close. It just seemed to make a lot of sense,” he shrugs, smiling sadly at the glass in his hand. “I love her. Always have, but… I’ve never been _in_ love with her.” 

“Did she know how you felt?” Elio asks, quietly.

“She did,” Oliver nods. “She felt the same way. We’ve always been honest with one another, none of it would have worked otherwise. We would end things and then see each other at a party or some family function, start back up again. We wound up at the same grad school—” he shrugs again. “It seemed like what we were supposed to be doing. So many of our friends were already getting married. Our parents were always so thrilled to see us together. We felt like we owed it to them to keep trying, I suppose.”

“Were you happy?”

“I wasn’t unhappy,” Oliver admits. “I wasn’t much of anything. It just was what it was.”

“But that’s—” Elio’s mouth opens and closes, his brow furrowed in frustration or disappointment or both. “If neither of you were happy, then why? Didn’t you want more than that?”

“It never really occurred to me that I should have anything more,” Oliver says, a sad half-smile playing on his lips. “My upbringing was very different from yours, Elio. Your parents adore each other, and you, and it’s plain to anyone who meets your family. My parents tolerate each other, at best. I figured if I wound up with my best friend, at least I’d have that.”

Elio swallows. “Were you still together before that summer?”

“No,” Oliver answers quickly. “We’d split up a few months before. Once I knew I’d be leaving.” He snorts, “we said it was the last time, then. We were done — there was no point. We even drank to our happy end.”

“But it wasn’t,” Elio says, remembering the phone call that winter. His heart aching for days, weeks, months afterwards. “Why?”

Oliver shakes his head. “When you and I were together that summer, it felt—” Oliver’s breath trembles out of him. “Like my heart was constantly beating too fast. It was terrifying, but so—” he clutches his hand over the center of his chest and can’t fight the wide smile curving his lips. “So sweet, and full, and bright.”

Elio watches Oliver’s eyes slide shut and tamps the urge to kiss his lids. His mind conjures images of golden summer days laying in the grass, sprawled together in bed, clinging to one another in the water. _Sweet. Full. Bright._ It was, and so much more.

“It all felt so impermanent,” Oliver sighs. “I kept telling myself it was the combination of circumstances that I was enamored with — foreign country, summer heat, your house straight out of some old movie. You. The summer would end, I’d go back to my life, and things would be what they were.”

“Was it?” Elio swallows the lump in his throat when Oliver’s eyes snap to his. “Impermanent.”

“It might have been easier that way,” Oliver admits. “But no, it wasn’t. We weren’t.” 

Elio’s lips curl into a tiny smile. He stretches his leg across the space between them and slots the big toe of his right foot between the big and second toe of Oliver’s left.

“Leaving you on the train platform that day was— I felt empty. For weeks afterward, it was just this awful, hollow feeling that I couldn’t escape,” he drags his hands down his face. “I bumped into Kim on campus. She’d been seeing someone for a few months and it had recently ended, badly. We were both miserable. Misery loves company.”

“So, you decided getting married was the best solution.” Elio says, not without a tinge of sarcasm.

Oliver wriggles his toes away, pokes the ball of Elio’s foot, then links them back together. “Our parents were driving us both nuts. I didn’t even properly propose. We talked about it over dinner one night and decided we might as well. It made things better, at first. Created a distraction from a lot of things neither of us were willing to deal with. We got wrapped up in the planning and the excitement of it all.”

He pauses, mind tripping over images of he and Kim, the clean black lines of his tux, her white lace gown. He wonders what the ceremony would have been like. Grand, over the top — the country club in New England; Both of them with smiles plastered on their faces, trying to remember how they got there. 

“What happened?” Elio asks. 

“All those things we’d piled up got too big. It started to fall apart,” Oliver shrugs. “We’d go to weddings and engagement parties, listen to our friends toast each other and their lives together. It became more and more obvious that our relationship was just a shell of what it should have been, and we were just going through the motions, putting on a show. Felt like we were speeding down the road toward this wedding, waiting to see who’d be brave enough to jump out of the car first.” He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “And then I saw you again.” 

Oliver settles his eyes on Elio and finds him staring, lips parted in a tiny circle of surprise. 

“Me?” He breathes. “But you said—” 

“There were a lot of reasons,” Oliver reminds him. “And you were one of them. You were my tipping point.” 

“When?” Elio asks, remembering Oliver’s alcohol-laced voice on the answering machine. The cassette still in his walkman. 

“One of the first recitals you were in at Juilliard,” Oliver smiles. “You played Liszt — stunning, by the way.”

“Freshman year,” Elio whispers. “In fall.”

Oliver nods. “I knew, after that night, that I couldn’t marry Kim.”

“I don’t understand. You’ve already admitted neither of you were happy,” Elio reasons. “Why did seeing me change things?” 

Oliver tilts his head to the side. “Because I was still in love with you,” he says simply. 

The statement hangs in the air between them. Elio has always known. Of course he’s known, but hearing it from Oliver’s lips still takes him by surprise. There’s a weightlessness in his chest that’s quickly overpowered by an overwhelming sense of loss. He frowns and shakes his head. “But it didn’t change anything. You stayed away — for years, Oliver.”

“It changed everything. I stayed away because I was trying to do the right thing,” Oliver explains, putting up his hand when Elio starts to interrupt. “I know you don’t agree, Elio. I can’t—” he sighs heavily and lets his head fall back against the sofa, closing his eyes.

They’re both quiet for a moment, mulling over all that’s been said. When Oliver speaks again, his voice is soft, full of resignation that makes Elio ache for him.

“I was a mess when I came home that summer. I didn’t expect it, had no idea how to fix it. So I just forced myself to keep going. I told myself so many lies — about what I should be doing with my life. About love and what it should be. And all the things I could live without. I figured I could just keep going along on the path I was on and I’d be okay. Maybe I’d never be deliriously happy, but—” he shrugs. “Who gets to have that? Certainly nobody in my family.”

“Oliver,” the broken whisper falls from Elio’s mouth before he can stop it. 

Oliver turns the water glass in his hand, lifts it to his lips and drains it. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, shaking his head. “When I saw you that night, all of it just went out the window. I knew I couldn’t marry Kim. We were both doing it for the wrong reasons, and it wasn’t fair to anyone. I love her — she’s my best friend, my family, really. But, she deserved more than what I could have given her.” 

Elio nods. “And what about you?”

Oliver frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You watched me play a recital one night six years ago and knew you were in love with me. You’ve been at dozens of my performances since then and have never said a word, never approached me, not once.” Elio pauses, trying to reign in his agitation. “What do you want for _you, _Oliver? 

“Elio, I’ve told you,” Oliver shrugs, opens and closes his mouth before finding his words. “You were eighteen. I meant it, that summer, when I said I don’t want you to regret anything. If I’d inserted myself back into your life and you’d grown to resent me, or resent us, for having done it,” he lifts his head and catches Elio’s eyes, watery and a bit stunned. “I’ve caused you enough heartache. I don’t know what I would have—” he breaks off with a shaky exhale. “My god, I am so in love with you.”

Elio rises to his knees and takes the glass from Oliver’s hand, setting it on the coffee table with his own. He shuffles forward, crawling over Oliver’s lap until his knees bump the base of the sofa. “C’mere,” he mutters, wrapping his arms around Oliver’s neck. 

Oliver welcomes the embrace, tilting forward to press his forehead against the slope of Elio’s shoulder. He loops his arms around Elio’s waist, palms splayed wide over his back, shivering when Elio’s fingers begin to slowly drag over his scalp. 

They breathe against each other for a short while, Elio swaying them, just slightly — just enough to make Oliver’s body relax in his arms.

“Oliver,” Elio whispers, tugging gently at the ends of his hair. He tilts Oliver’s head back and cups his cheeks. For all the weight in his limbs, his eyes still carry a measure of distress that Elio aims to do away with. “You didn’t cause me heartache. Circumstance did — and it did to us both — but, I’m not a teenager anymore, and you need to stop punishing yourself because you think it’s best for me.” 

“That’s not— I’m not—” Oliver shakes his head. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“What do you want?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it _is._ This part is that simple, Oliver. I’ve been in love with you since I was seventeen years old. It couldn’t have worked back then, I know that, but we’re here, together, now,” Elio’s fingers curl tightly at the sides of Oliver’s face, frustration bleeding into his limbs. “What do _you want?_”

“You,” Oliver breathes, and feels like a weight has been lifted from his chest. “I want to be with you.”

Elio’s breath stutters out in a sharp burst — half laughter, half sob. He smiles, leaning in and touching his nose to Oliver’s. “Okay,” he whispers. 

“Just like that, huh?” Oliver nudges his forehead against Elio’s, slides a hand down his back and rests it against his hip. He squeezes once and Elio closes his eyes, slowly, and opens them again. 

Elio nods, “Just like that.” He reaches up and grabs a fistful of Oliver’s hair, right at his hairline, tugs once and drags his hand down Oliver’s cheek. “Exactly like that,” he murmurs. “The rest is—” he shrugs, closes his eyes again. “What happens after.”

Oliver smiles. “Okay.”

Elio kisses him. Once, twice. A third time. “Okay.” 

—————

The rest of the day is lost in a haze of sex and sleep, and the occasional break for food, or a shower that inevitably leads to more sex. 

Oliver’s body feels wrung-out, even as his muscles clench and his feet scramble for purchase in the sweat-messed sheets. He hisses, one hand flying to Elio’s shoulder, the other a tight fist in the knotted tangle of his curls. “Elio, _fuck,_” he groans, back arching hard off the bed. Elio moans around him, points his tongue and runs it against the spot just under the head of his cock, does it over and over again until Oliver’s panting, rocking up into his mouth. “_Fuck, fuck, f- ‘m gonna—_”

Elio flicks his tongue at the head, tastes the first drop of him, slides the firm ring of his lips down as far as he can and stills. He opens his eyes and watches the hitch and tremble of Oliver’s stomach as he comes down his throat. 

Once he’s spent, Oliver’s hands turn soft again. Caressing the skin of Elio’s shoulder where his nails may have bitten in too hard, gentling his fingers through his messy hair until Elio tilts his head up and smiles. “Come up here,” Oliver says, the hoarse sound of his voice surprising both of them.

Elio rubs his face against Oliver’s thigh, gives himself a minute before he crawls up the bed. As the energy saps from his limbs, he flings his left arm across Oliver’s chest and collapses at his side. The room is quiet but for the sounds of their bodies shifting, breath slowing down. Elio can feel the pulse of Oliver’s heart, a steady tap at the inside of his arm. He turns his head until his face is buried in the crease of Oliver’s armpit, smiling when the hair tickles his nose, when his body’s jostled by the soft tremor of Oliver chuckling. 

“What?” Elio mumbles. He arches his back, stretches his legs, his arms, rolls the joints of his wrists. A whine of pleasure escapes him as he slumps forward, plants his face right back where it was. “What?” he asks again.

“Nothin’,” Oliver croaks, but he’s still smiling as he throws his arm over his eyes. 

Elio props himself up on his forearms, dips his head and flicks his tongue over Oliver’s nipple, catches it between his teeth and bites. He’s gentle, but Oliver winces, hand coming down from his own face to cup Elio’s cheek. 

“Sorry,” Elio whispers, nuzzling into his palm. “Sorry, sorry.”

“’S fine,” Oliver relaxes again. “Just a little—”

“Oversensitive,” Elio finishes for him. He smooths his hand over Oliver’s chest. “When you were out earlier, I looked around a little bit.”

“Oh yeah?” Oliver smirks when Elio ducks his head. “See anything interesting in my underwear drawer?”

“Just that you have way too much of it,” Elio mutters.

Oliver chuckles. “You would think so.”

“I saw a photograph,” Elio says quietly. “In your office.”

“Ah, right,” He tugs gently at Elio’s hair until he looks up again. “_Her_ wedding, not ours. I was her Man of Honor,” he grins, throwing air quotes around the title. “We call it our ‘Would-Be Wedding Photo.’”  
  
Elio nods, gives him a tiny smile, “You looked good together.”

“There’s an almost identical photo of me and her husband,” Oliver offers. “I looked pretty good with him, too.” He laughs when Elio’s nose wrinkles, when the color rises in his cheeks. “No?”

“No,” Elio shakes his head, hides his face in the crook of Oliver’s neck. His voice is barely a whisper, lips dragging over skin. “No one else.”

Oliver turns his head, brushing his mouth along the shell of Elio’s ear. He feels Elio’s mouth curve into a smile. “No one else.”

—————

Oliver’s washing the piled up dishes in the sink when he remembers the glasses left out in the living room. He shuts the faucet and quickly dries his hands before padding out of the kitchen. He finds Elio sitting on the sofa, tugging socks onto his feet. He looks up and smiles when Oliver walks in, then reaches down to slide his feet into his sneakers. 

Elio stands up, grabbing his coat from the back of the sofa. “I should head out,” he explains, shrugging the jacket onto his shoulders. “I have a lesson tomorrow morning and all of my books are at my apartment.”

Oliver frowns, and knows he’s about to do a terrible job of hiding his disappointment. “Are you sure? It’s late to go all the way back—” 

“I’d need to get back so early to change and get my lesson stuff,” Elio looks around the room to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. “It’ll be easier if I go back now. I can’t keep wearing your clothes,” he laughs. “I did steal your socks, though.”

“Right,” Oliver forces a smile. “Well, let me—” he heads into the hallway and pulls his coat from the closet. 

“What are you doing?” Elio comes up behind him, slinging his bag over his shoulder. 

“I’m going with you,” Oliver states, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s after two in the morning. Even I don’t like to walk around this area by myself at this hour.”

Elio’s mouth quirks as he tries to bite back a grin. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to,” Oliver mutters, grabbing his keys and turning Elio toward the door. “I want to.”

Elio spins back, throwing his arms around Oliver’s neck, and kissing him until he laughs. 

“Alright,” Oliver says between kisses. “We should go or we won’t go,” he manages. 

“Okay,” Elio kisses him again and pulls away. “Do you have tokens for the subway?”

“We can get a taxi at the corner, it’ll be easier,” Oliver says, ushering them out the door. 

The ride takes just over twenty minutes. Elio leans his forehead against the window as the cab exits onto Houston Street. Oliver rolls his head against the seatback and spies a tiny smile playing at Elio’s lips. He slides his hand across the seat and links their pinky fingers together. Elio turns, brows raised in silent question.

“What’s funny?” Oliver asks, quietly. 

The private smile returns to Elio’s lips and Oliver wishes they were alone so he could kiss it. Instead, he tugs at their linked fingers, asks without asking. His eyes snap to the pink tip of Elio’s tongue as it darts out to wet his lips.

“Just trying to picture you in my apartment,” Elio finally replies. “We’re almost there.”

The traffic light ahead of them turns from yellow to red. Outside the window, there’s a bar with a bright neon sign that casts the interior of the cab in a hazy pink glow. Oliver drags his eyes up to meet Elio’s. 

“Why’s that funny?” he asks. 

The light changes and they’re in shadow once again as the cab moves slowly down the street. 

“It’s small,” Elio shrugs. “Even for me, and you’re—” he cuts himself off with a grin, licks his lips again. 

Oliver cocks an eyebrow and smirks. “I’m what?” 

“Have you seen you?” Elio laughs softly. 

The cab rolls to a stop at the corner of Broadway and Broome and the driver tilts his head back toward the partition. “This okay?”

Elio nods, “This is great, thanks.” He digs into his pocket for his wallet.

“Hey,” Oliver’s hand closes around his wrist. “I’ve got it.” He passes the fare through to the driver and opens the door before Elio can form a reply. “Keep the change.” 

“Thanks, man,” the driver nods. 

Elio climbs out of the car behind him. “I could have gotten the tip, I—”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m the one who suggested a taxi,” Oliver grins and nudges Elio’s shoulder. “Show me your place.”  
  
“Are you sure you wanna come up?” Elio hesitantly drags his foot back and forth on the sidewalk. “It’s not very impressive.”

“I’m not looking to be impressed,” Oliver says, gently kicking the toe of Elio’s sneaker. 

“Yeah,” Elio chews at the inside of his cheek for a moment. “C’mon,” he starts walking down the block. 

They stop in front of a narrow, brick building. Oliver tilts his head back to survey the nondescript facade as Elio digs his keys out of his pocket and opens the glass door to the vestibule. 

“It’s on the fourth floor,” Elio explains. “And it’s a walk up.” He shuffles past Oliver in the tight entryway to unlock the main door. 

Oliver snorts as he walks past him into the building’s main stairwell. “I’ve done student living before, Elio. This isn’t new to me.”

Elio holds a finger to his lips. “It’s late,” he whispers. “Everyone here is sensitive.”

Oliver mimics the gesture with a smirk and follows Elio’s lead up the stairs. At the fourth floor, Elio turns down the short hallway. With Oliver close at his back, he unlocks the door to his apartment, flicking on the light as he leads them inside. Oliver catches the door, smiles and holds his finger to his lips again as he lets it close gently behind him. Elio smiles faintly and shuffles awkwardly from one foot to the other. 

“So,” Oliver starts, taking a step forward, eyes scanning the space around him.

“Right, um,” Elio walks ahead of him and stands in the center of the cramped, one-room space. “Bed, kitchen, bathroom,” he gestures, arm quickly flying in the general direction of each. He pads back over toward the door, toes off his sneakers and Oliver quickly follows suit, neatly lining his up along the wall next to Elio’s.

“There’s not much to it,” Elio says. He drops his bag on the floor by his desk as Oliver watches him nervously dart around. “But it’s enough for now, I guess.” He shrugs out of his coat slips it onto a hook behind the door, gesturing for Oliver to take his off as well. 

Oliver hands over his coat while his eyes roam the small studio. He finds himself overcome with nostalgia for Elio’s bedroom at the villa. The tiny New York apartment is entirely different, yet achingly familiar. The notebooks and pages of sheet music scattered all over the desk, the unmade bed littered with various articles of clothing, the acoustic guitar propped up in the corner, the haphazardly stacked piles of cassettes, and the small shelf of well-worn books. All of it reminds him of that room they shared. His mind stirs up an echo, the creak of heavy doors and the loud bang of the shutters in the breeze, the drag of sheets over bare skin. Elio breezes past, snaps him back to the present. 

“I haven’t had time to clean up,” he apologizes, grabbing the clothes from his bed and tossing them into a hamper. He hurriedly straightens out the bedsheets, then turns to his desk, sorting through a pile of music books stacked there. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Oliver shakes his head. “I like it. It’s very—” he tilts his head when his eyes land on the bookshelf again, stepping further into the room until he can squat down in front of it for a better look. He scoffs out a laugh. “Did you find this on the street?” 

“What? No, I—” Elio pauses, looks up from the score he’s flipped to and frowns. “I built it.”

Oliver can’t help his delighted grin. “You? Built this?” He asks, pointing to the barely standing bookshelf. “You do realize this top shelf is at almost a 25 degree angle?” 

Elio rolls his eyes. “It’s not 25 degrees,” he mutters. “It might be ten.”

“What compelled you to build your own bookshelf?” Oliver laughs. 

“It seemed economical at the time,” Elio shrugs. “My friend Jordan had built his own to save some money. He kept going on and on about how it was so easy, learned to do it in Shop class — never mind that I had no idea what the hell a Shop class even entailed,” he sighs and Oliver grins. “Anyway, he offered to help, but after we got all the pieces, he had to go out of town for a performance and I got tired of having my books just stacked on the floor, so I did it myself,” he gazes at the shelf for a moment, nods, and turns back to his music.

“Were you high?” Oliver asks, unable to let it go. He angles his head, making a show of reading the book titles on the slanted shelf

Elio chews at the inside of his cheek. “I may have started out that way,” he admits and Oliver smirks. 

“Must have been an interesting evening.”

Elio snorts. “Try three evenings, four bottles of wine, and six missing screws.”

“Six?” Oliver reaches a hand toward the side of the shelf. “How does it stay upri—“

“No, don’t touch it!” Elio yelps, lunging toward him and yanking his hand away by the wrist. 

With a startled laugh, Oliver rises to his feet with his hands up. 

“Sorry,” Elio apologizes. “It falls down. Sometimes.”

Oliver’s shoulders shake with laughter. “How many times have you rebuilt it?”

“At least once in my first apartment, and more here,” Elio wrinkles his nose. “A few?”

“You’ve moved with it?” Oliver laughs. 

Elio feigns shock. “This shelf is the only thing I have ever built with my own two hands. My home is its home.”

Oliver nods, and is surprised to find that he can easily picture the misshapen little shelf taking up space in _his_ home. Perhaps tucked against the wall in his second floor office, or in the spare room he’s been meaning to furnish for the past few years. He could even fit an upright piano there, if he wanted. If Elio wanted. 

“Hey,” Elio nudges him with a shoulder. “Where’d you go?” 

Oliver takes a deep breath and shakes his head, smiles. “Just trying to imagine you with your hammer and nails.” 

“Well,” Elio smirks. “Thankfully, there was nobody around to immortalize those precious moments.” 

It’s quiet for a moment. When Elio looks up, Oliver is still smiling at him — charmed, with the faintest hint of amusement. Elio holds his gaze until he feels himself blush. He shakes his head and returns to sorting through the books he needs for the morning. Oliver makes a circle around the room, pausing to inspect the pieces of Elio’s life, both remembered and missed. When he finishes collecting all his lesson materials, Elio shoves everything into his bag and scrubs a hand through his hair. He looks over at Oliver, who’s leaning cross-legged against the kitchen counter. 

“You can,” he waves a hand toward the bed. “Sit, or, I can—” he moves to clear some more clutter from the desk chair. 

“Hey,” Oliver says, quietly. He steps forward, reaching out to tangle his fingers in Elio’s hair. 

Elio sighs, shuffling in to plant his forehead against Oliver’s chest. “I don’t know why I’m nervous,” he mumbles. 

“I don’t either,” Oliver chuckles, “But you don’t have to be. I think we’ve moved beyond the scaring off phase.”

Elio snorts and pulls his head back. “It’s surreal. You being here,” he whispers. 

Oliver cups his neck, skates his thumbs over the curve of his jaw. They kiss slow and sleepy, quiet sighs and soft touches, until Elio ducks his head and yawns widely against Oliver’s shoulder. 

“Sorry,” he mutters with a tired laugh. 

“It’s fine,” Oliver smiles. “What time is your lesson tomorrow?” 

Elio straightens up and rubs the back of his neck. “Nine. I’ll have to leave around 8:30 or so.”

“I should let you get some sleep then,” Oliver nods. He turns, spotting his coat by the door, and takes a step toward it.

“No, I—” Elio grabs hold of his hand, tugging him back. “Stay. You should stay.”

Oliver casts a skeptical glance over Elio’s shoulder at the double bed on its rather weathered looking metal frame.

“We’ll fit,” Elio assures him. He loops his arms back around Oliver’s waist. “It’s gotta be at least three in the morning. There’s no reason to go all the way back uptown,” he whispers, lips moving on Oliver’s jaw. “Stay.” He gasps lightly when Oliver tilts his head and catches his lips. “Sleep in tomorrow,” Elio breathes between kisses. “And when I come back we can—”

“We can what?” Oliver hums as his lips travel the column of Elio’s neck. 

“I forgot.” 

Oliver huffs a soft puff of air into the space behind Elio’s ear, presses a kiss to his temple and pulls away. “Get ready for bed.” He brushes Elio’s hair back gently. “I’ll stay, but I don’t want to make you late.”

Elio grins broadly, despite his heavily lidded eyes. He leans in for another quick kiss. “We can get breakfast,” he remembers his earlier thought, still smiling as he backs away. 

“That sounds good,” Oliver nods, suddenly feeling every bit as exhausted as Elio seems. 

While Elio uses the bathroom, Oliver strips down to his boxers and drapes his clothes over the back of the desk chair. He wanders into the kitchenette, fills a glass of water from the tap and drinks it slowly. Elio comes out of the bathroom wearing a pair of sweatpants that hang low on his hips. He tosses his laundry into a hamper near the bed and sidles up behind Oliver. 

“You could have come in, you know,” Elio murmurs. He presses his bare chest to Oliver’s back and gently drags his cheek along the blade of his shoulder. 

Oliver finishes his water and rinses the glass, setting it in the rack beside the sink. “I told you,” he laughs softly. “I don’t want you to be late because of me.”

Elio sighs and steps back. “You can make it up to me tomorrow,” he smirks. “Do you need to—” he juts his thumb over his shoulder. 

Oliver nods, mid-yawn, and shuffles into the bathroom while Elio locks the front door and throws the chain into the catch. He turns out the light over the kitchenette, sets the dial on his alarm and is pulling back the comforter on his bed just as Oliver comes back. 

“I don’t want to wake you when I get up in the morning,” Elio shrugs apologetically.

“I honestly wouldn’t mind, but if you prefer,” Oliver kisses his temple and climbs into bed, stretching out on the side that’s pushed up against the wall. The metal frame rattles and clangs with every move he makes, and gets louder when Elio slips in beside him. They shuffle into each other’s arms, curling around each other. Oliver shifts his weight and freezes when the bed frame gives an ominous groan. He can feel Elio’s smiling face pressed against his chest. 

“Did you build this, too?” he mutters, keeping as still as possible. 

Elio snorts. “No.” He tugs at Oliver’s arm. “Come back.”

Moving gingerly, Oliver rolls toward him, flinching slightly with each squeak of metal on metal until Elio is trembling with laughter. 

“You won’t find it nearly as amusing when this whole thing collapses beneath us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone likes domestic nonsense and fluff... a lot.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Oliver battles a shower and also asks for something he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not kidding about the fluff.

The alarm jolts them awake at 7:00 a.m. and Elio quickly silences it, curling back down beneath the comforter, seeking the warmth of Oliver’s skin.

“I have to get up,” he mumbles.

“You do,” Oliver’s voice is raspy with sleep. He skims his fingers up and down Elio’s back. “You should.”

Elio nods, wraps his arms tight around Oliver’s waist and squeezes. A soft, contented sound rumbles through Oliver’s chest as he returns the embrace. He presses a kiss to the top of Elio’s head. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

“I know,” Elio murmurs. He rolls away, tucking the blanket around Oliver’s shoulders once he’s climbed out of the bed. He pads over to the kitchenette and rummages around for the Moka pot, quickly setting it up for his morning coffee. He lifts his arms over his head and stretches with a satisfied grunt, drops his hands and heads into the bathroom.

After he’s pissed and brushed his teeth, Elio pulls back the shower curtain and immediately realizes he hasn’t had a chance to tell Oliver about the shower. He reaches up and wraps his hand around the nozzle, tries rotating the angle, turning it to and fro, but he knows from experience that it’s no good. The fixture is just barely level with his nose. He’s gotten used to maneuvering his way around, but he’s not as tall, and is all-around leaner than Oliver.

Elio chews at his bottom lip for a moment. He pulls the door open a crack and spies Oliver, still sound asleep in his bed. He quietly closes the door and turns the faucet on. He considers waking Oliver up, dragging him into the bathroom to explain, showing him how he’ll need to crouch beneath the spray, mind his shoulders, knees, elbows, the balls of his ankles at every turn. Or he could tell him to wait. They’ll go back uptown to Oliver’s apartment. To a tub that will fit both of them, where Elio will bathe him. Carefully scrub him clean, then lick, kiss, touch every inch of his body with every inch of himself. Clean him up to mess him up, then do it all again. Knows Oliver would let him, if he asked.

He puts a hand under the spray and finds it hot enough to step in. As the water pelts his skin, Elio curses himself for not having set the alarm a bit earlier. He closes his eyes and can only see Oliver, wet and soapy slick, skin pink from the shower heat.

“_Fuck,_” he whispers, his cock already plump at the thought of getting Oliver in the bath. He takes himself in hand, fist dragging down his length, letting his thumb swipe across the head. He sucks in a breath and shudders. “Fuck,” he groans a bit louder and slumps forward to plant his forehead against the tile. He leans down and flips the faucet over to cold, gasping when the water turns to ice on his skin. “Later,” he shivers, nodding to himself as he reaches for the shampoo.

—————

Oliver rolls out of bed at around 9:15 a.m. He makes the bed and stretches, wincing at the tightness in his shoulders. He spots a note with his name on it propped up on Elio’s desk and ambles over to it.

_Back around 10  
Coffee pot on stove, grounds in can by fridge  
Silver key for the apartment  
Gold key for downstairs  
Clean towel on back of bathroom door  
Sorry about the shower_

He frowns at the last line and glances at the bathroom door, but can’t recall having noticed anything wrong with the shower last night. He touches his fingers to the two keys and places the note back on the desk. 

In the kitchen, he quickly finds the Moka pot on the stove and washes out the remnants of Elio’s morning roast. He sets it aside to dry and decides to shower first and then brew his coffee. He tosses his boxers onto the desk chair with the rest of his clothes and wanders into the bathroom. As he maneuvers around the small space, he bumps his ass, then his hip against the sink. He turns to look at the distance between the sink and toilet and snorts, vaguely recalling cold porcelain against his side last night. He uses Elio’s toothbrush, careful to set it down far from the edge of the sink, in case he bumps into it again.

Once he pulls back the shower curtain, Elio’s note immediately makes sense. Oliver settles his hands on his hips and stares at the faucet as though it’s a problem he can solve. He steps forward, putting one foot into the tub of the shower, and stands at his full height. The fixture is about level with his neck. He shakes his head and steps back out of the tub. “Coffee first, then,” he mutters, walking out of the bathroom and back into the kitchen.

While the coffee brews, he searches the cabinets for a mug and realizes that the only food in Elio’s home is a dwindling collection of Pop-Tarts and a few cans of Spaghetti-Os. Oliver imagines the horror on Mafalda’s face if she ever saw the contents of this kitchen. He itches to bring Elio back to his place and cook for him, keep him well fed and warm, happy, healthy. He pushes the thought aside for later and continues rooting around for a coffee cup. He’s delighted to find an assortment of novelty mugs stacked on one of the higher shelves. Shifting through them, he grins at a kitschy ceramic piece that reads _‘Kiss Me, I’m Italian’_. He fills it to the brim with black coffee and shuffles back into the bathroom, staring at the shower as he takes his first few sips. He’s less concerned about the lack of space than he is with the kind of mess he’s liable to make. He can’t imagine how Elio washes without soaking the entire bathroom every time. He turns, catching himself in the mirror, and realizes he must make for a hilarious image — six foot five and stark naked, holding a ridiculous coffee mug and contemplating a shower he can’t possibly hope to fit into.

He drinks half of his coffee and brings the mug back to the kitchen, leans both hands against the counter and contemplates going back up town to shower at home. He probably couldn’t make it there and back before Elio is finished with his lesson, but he could leave a note. Elio would understand — he’d left the note about the shower in the first place. He imagines rushing out the door and forgetting both the key and his pants, inadvertently locking himself out of the apartment, and ultimately getting arrested for exposure in an effort to avoid this shower. He shakes his head and goes back into the bathroom.

He fiddles with the faucet until the temperature is right and stares at the flow of the water. He considers putting down a bunch of towels, just in case he does wind up getting water everywhere, but it seems excessive and he doesn’t want to put Elio out with a ton of laundry. “Just get it over with,” Oliver mutters to himself, ducking into the tub.

It takes a few minutes just to find a suitable standing position. The basin is so narrow that there’s barely enough room for him to stand with his feet side by side. He adjusts, sliding one foot slightly in front of the other, feeling the low porcelain wall braced against the outside of his calf. The highest point the faucet’s spray will naturally hit is about dead center on his chest. He quickly catalogs the ways he’ll have to bend in order to shampoo his hair, wash his face, upper body, under his arms, his upper back.

With a resigned sigh, Oliver turns to get the soap. The move causes him to slam his elbow into the tiled shower wall. He jerks back, wincing and rubbing at his funnybone. The frantic motion sends him off balance, almost pitching over the edge of the tub. He manages to grab onto the shower curtain rod, flinging his other hand out to brace himself against the wall just in time. He mutters curses as he straightens up and carefully grabs the soap from the small shower rack. He somehow manages to lather, wash, and rinse himself clean with only a few more bumps to his elbows and knees in the process, though it takes longer than any standard shower has ever taken him. He sets the soap back on its shelf and turns his back to the spray. 

Generally, he likes to spend a few leisurely minutes letting his body sag under the hot water, but this is just disappointing. One side of his body is pressed uncomfortably to the shower wall, the other touched by the damp tackiness of the shower curtain. His upper arms and shoulders are too high for the water, so they’re left cold, goosebumps rising over his flesh. Giving up, Oliver carefully reaches for the shampoo and squeezes a dollop into his palm. He drags his shampoo sticky hands through his hair, only to realize it’s almost entirely dry. He groans, pulling his hands away from his head. 

Facing away from the water, Oliver can’t properly rinse the shampoo from his palms, and no longer has a clean grip to brace himself with. He bends his knees, trying to back himself up far enough to get his head under the spray, but it’s impossible. He’ll need to turn back around, sit, or kneel in order to wash his hair. The latter two are out of the question, seeing as how he can barely fit both feet beside one another. He carefully pivots, elbow glancing off the tiles again as he turns. He shuffles forward and bends his head into the water, dipping his knees so he can scrub shampoo into the hair at his nape and rinse it clean. 

It’s impossible to imagine Elio doing this every day. Oliver, hunched under the slowly cooling spray, gives himself a moment to picture it. Usually the idea of Elio in the shower would start a familiar coil of want in his belly, but this is more like trying to solve a puzzle: How would Elio crouch to wash under his arms; How would he bend to scrub the shampoo from his unruly curls. Is Elio constantly cracking his boney elbows on soapy tiles?

Oliver chews at his lips, trying to imagine each different scenario without some kind of injury. He flattens his palms against the wall in front of him and lets the water pelt his hair until it runs free of shampoo suds.

—————

Elio bounds up the stairs and unlocks the door, letting it swing shut behind him with a wall-rattling bang. There’s loud thud, immediately followed by the sound of skin smacking against tile.

“_Fuck!_”

“Oliver?” he calls, just noticing the noise of the shower running. Elio kicks off his shoes, drops his bag and hurries into the bathroom. He finds Oliver, hunched over beneath the shower nozzle, one hand clutching his temple, the other braced against the shower wall.

“What happened?” he reaches out to take Oliver’s hand away, examining the bright red welt forming at the side of his head.

“The door startled me,” Oliver winces, dropping his hands to his sides. “I stood up straight and smacked my head on the nozzle.”

Elio swipes his thumb gently over Oliver’s temple. “It’s not bleeding, at least.” He leans in and presses a kiss to the wet skin, then reaches down and turns the water off. “I’m sorry for slamming the door, I didn’t realize.”

Oliver shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’ll put some ice on it.”

Elio nods and hands him the clean towel from the back of the door.

“Thanks,” Oliver drags it over his hair and face. He looks at Elio as he’s wrapping the towel around his waist and suddenly bursts out laughing. “I honestly don’t think I can get out of this tub until you move,” he says.

Elio rolls his eyes dramatically, but walks out of the bathroom. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it up on the door. 

“How was your lesson?” Oliver asks, trailing out behind him.

“Good,” Elio smiles. “One of my more invested students.” He skims past Oliver, dragging a hand across his damp stomach as he pauses to kiss his shoulder. “Ice?” 

Oliver nods, walks over to the bed and gingerly lays across the mattress. “They’re not all invested?”

“Most of them are,” Elio shrugs. He opens the freezer and grabs a tray of ice cubes. “Some are only doing it because they think it’ll look better on their college applications, or because they’re young and their parents want them to.”

“Isn’t that a bit discouraging?” Oliver frowns.

“I don’t really have many like that,” Elio says. He pops a bunch of ice cubes out of the tray and dumps them into a bowl, sticking the tray back into the freezer. “The good ones make up for it, I suppose.”

Oliver huffs. “Sounds like the plight of myself and every teacher I know.”

Elio’s eyes flit over Oliver’s prone, mostly nude form. “I can’t imagine anyone not being invested with you standing in front of them.”

“There’s a small chance you might be biased,” Oliver grins.

“I guess I can’t deny that,” Elio admits. “Still, you’re brilliant. And incredibly engaging. Any student you think is uninvested is probably just incapable of getting anything done because you’re too distracting. I would be.”

Oliver rolls his head to the side, watching as Elio empties the bowl of ice into a washcloth and shuffles toward him. “I appreciate the vote of confidence,” he smirks.

“I’m only being honest,” Elio shrugs, dropping onto the bed. Oliver’s eyes go wide for a moment at the sound of groaning springs. Elio can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes him. “Would you stop?” he chuckles, gently pressing the icy washcloth to Oliver’s temple. “How’s this?”

“Hmm, good,” Oliver’s eyes slide closed.

“Did you eat?” 

Oliver shakes his head slightly. “I didn’t want to raid your Pop-Tart supply.”

Elio chews at the inside of his cheek. “I haven’t been home,” he explains.

“I’m just teasing,” Oliver chuckles, reaching out to pat Elio’s thigh. “I told you, I was a student once, too.”

“Do you want me to go pick something up for breakfast?”

“No, let’s go together. Just give me five minutes.”

“Okay,” Elio leans over him, combing fingers through his wet hair.

Oliver sighs contentedly. He blinks his eyes open to find Elio looking down at him. “Hey,” he says tentatively.

Elio hums, as his nails scratch gently over Oliver’s scalp.

“How many more days do you have before classes start?”

“Little over a week,” Elio shifts back as Oliver slowly sits up to face him. He gets up to bring the washcloth over to the kitchen sink and dump out the melting ice, hanging the cloth over the counter’s edge. He rubs his hands on the legs of his pants to dry them off. “Why?”

Oliver mulls it over. That nagging fear of occupying too much space in Elio’s life still prickles at the back of his mind. He’s not ready to say good-bye, though. Not even temporarily. It feels greedy to want so much. To ask for it. Elio comes back to the bed, stands in the space between Oliver’s knees. He curls both fists into Oliver’s hair, fingertips gently kneading his scalp. Oliver groans, slumps forward to press his forehead to Elio’s chest. He thinks about the things Elio said to him, about letting him make his own choices.

“How would you feel about packing some things and just—” Oliver sighs, rubbing his face against the warm cotton of Elio’s tee shirt. “Come stay with me until we both have to go back to work and school?”

Elio’s hands tighten in Oliver’s hair for a second, two fistfuls pulling tight before he catches himself, lets his grip go slack. He bites into his lower lip to keep himself from grinning madly. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” Oliver nods, leans back to look up at him. “Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

“It’s not just because you’re afraid of my apartment?” Elio teases, reaches down to pinch at Oliver’s side. 

“I am _not_ afraid of your apartment,” Oliver laughs grabbing at Elio’s hands. “But it is clearly trying to evacuate me.”

Elio grins. He cups Oliver’s head, tilting it in his hands, brushes his thumb over the small red welt on his temple. “How’s it feel?”

“Okay,” Oliver nods. “I think I’m ready to face the world.”

“You should probably put some pants on first,” Elio smirks. “It’s chilly out.”

“This is the second time you’ve instructed me to put _more_ clothes on,” Oliver lifts an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”

“What if I just don’t like sharing?” Elio leans down and plants a kiss on his forehead.

Oliver tips back, catching Elio’s lips. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he murmurs. 

Elio smiles against his mouth, kisses him twice more, and then again before pushing away with a laugh. “I’m gonna pack some things. We can get something to eat on the way back uptown.”

“Sounds good,” Oliver agrees. He grabs his clothes from the desk chair and drops his towel on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations, decisions, and delight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just when you thought it couldn't get fluffier.

“You cook,” Elio says, watching in mild surprise as Oliver expertly dices an onion.

Oliver shoots him an amused smile. “You know I worked as a chef when I was in school.” He scoops the onion into a pot on the stove, stirs it quickly with a wooden spoon and steps away.

“Knowing and seeing are two different things,” Elio reasons. “It’s not something I’ve ever imagined you doing.”

“When I was a kid, my grandmother would put my cousins and I on kitchen duty to keep us out of trouble during Chanukah,” Oliver minces two cloves of garlic and tosses them into the pot. “We’d all be sat around the kitchen table and have to peel and grate the potatoes for latkes. My cousins complained and complained, but I always enjoyed it.” He shrugs, “It’s one of my more pleasant childhood memories.”

Elio props his chin on his hand. The contents of the pot sizzles quietly and the kitchen is beginning to take on the fragrant aroma of sautéed garlic and onion. It reminds him of home. He watches Oliver chop carrots and celery, adding them into the mix on the stove. “Are you close with your parents?”

Another shrug as Oliver stirs the pot, adds pinches of salt and pepper. “Not like you are,” he says after a moment. “My mother tries, in her way, but I don’t know that she’s ever been particularly maternal. We’ve had our moments.”

Elio nods. “And your father?”

Oliver scoffs quietly. “I suppose one might say that I am not the son he envisioned himself having. It’s been strained, with both of them, since Kim and I called off the wedding. They think I should have tried harder to make things work.”

“But... neither of you were happy,” Elio frowns. 

“The truth isn’t always the easiest thing to hear,” Oliver sighs. The resignation in his tone is telling of how many times he’s had that particular conversation. 

Elio hesitates, fingers drawing idle circles on the countertop. “Do they know about—”

“You?” 

“You,” Elio corrects quietly.

“They do,” Oliver chews at his bottom lip for a moment. “Whether or not they’ll ever acknowledge that,” he shrugs, turning his attention back to the stove. “I’m not sure it’s worth the effort of trying to make them,” he mutters. 

Elio nods, lets it be for a moment, instead leaning over to watch as Oliver empties two cans of crushed tomatoes into the pot. “Canned instead of fresh?” he teases.

Oliver looks over his shoulder, cocks a brow and smirks. “I’m sorry, is this not up to your fine Italian standards? Would you prefer a microwave dinner?”

Elio grins, pokes his tongue into his cheek, and slides out of his chair. He sidles up behind Oliver, arms winding around his waist, wrists clasped in front of his belly.

“Careful,” Oliver murmurs, tilting back slightly to bring Elio’s hands away from the stove. “Don’t burn yourself.”

“I won’t,” Elio hums, lips pressed to Oliver’s back. 

They’re quiet for a few minutes, swaying slightly in place as Oliver stirs. Elio slips one hand under Oliver’s tee shirt, rests it flat against his skin. 

“What about at work?” Elio mumbles. “Are you— do they know that you—”

“Sleep with men?” Oliver cuts him off with a chuckle. 

Elio nods, chin digging into Oliver’s shoulder. 

“I don’t go out of my way to keep it a secret,” Oliver shrugs. “But I don’t advertise it either.”

“Have there been _many_ others?”

“Not many,” Oliver shakes his head. “Never serious.”

Elio turns his head, presses his cheek to Oliver’s shoulder blade. “Did they look like me?”

Oliver cups his hand over Elio’s, curls their fists tight against this skin. “Nobody looks like you.”

—————

“I have a lesson tomorrow afternoon,” Elio says, flopping onto the sofa beside Oliver. “It’s not too far, just by school, actually. Probably be gone about two hours or so, depending on the trains.”

Oliver looks up from the newspaper and nods. “Okay,” he pauses at the hesitant look on Elio’s face. “What?”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you or anything, you know,” Elio shrugs. “If you have stuff to do and— I can just go home after, if you— if it’s easier.”

“Elio—” Oliver’s shaking his head before he’s finished speaking. “Wait here,” he tosses the paper aside, and runs up to his office. 

Elio reaches for the newspaper, flipping through it until he finds the half-finished crossword. He grins, folds the pages over and grabs Oliver’s pen from the coffee table. He fills in several answers toward the end of the puzzle and flips back to the article Oliver had been reading, setting the paper and pen back in their places.

After a few minutes, Oliver comes padding back down the stairs. “Sorry,” he huffs, dropping back onto the sofa. “Thought they were in one drawer, turns out they were in an envelope in the back of another.” 

Elio frowns. “What were you looking for?”

Oliver takes his hand and places a set of keys into his palm. “This one,” he taps the larger, silver key, “is for the deadbolt. The other is for the main lock.”

Elio’s mouth opens and closes as he stares at the keys in his hand. “I can— do you want the keys to mine? Those copies I have?” His eyes sweep up to meet Oliver’s. “Would you ever use them?”

“Sure,” Oliver shrugs. He smiles and reaches for the paper.

“Come on.” Elio snorts, giving way to a broad grin, “You hate it there.”

“I don’t,” Oliver shakes his head, frowning. “Not if it’s where you are.”

Elio stares at him for a few seconds, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. He closes his fist around the keys, expelling a hoarse giggle as he does. 

“If it’s too much—”

Elio pounces before Oliver can finish, wraps both arms around his head, buries his face in Oliver’s hair. “Ssh,” he whispers. “Stop.”

Oliver laughs, voice muffled in the curve of Elio’s embrace. He tugs until Elio’s arms slip to rest around his shoulders. “Okay?”

“Yes,” Elio nods, hasn’t stopped smiling. He swoops in, kissing Oliver soundly on the lips, cheeks, tip of his nose. He turns and settles comfortably against Oliver’s side. 

Oliver tips his head, brushes his cheek over the mess of Elio’s hair and leans forward to pick up the newspaper. Elio’s mouth twists to the side. His body jerks as he fights to hold back a snort. 

“What?” Oliver looks down at him.

Elio shakes his head, taps his chest. “Sneeze,” he explains, though his voice trembles.

“You filled in my crossword,” Oliver groans as Elio erupts, falling against him with a full, shuddering laughter. 

—————

Oliver wakes to the sound of rain teeming down on the air conditioning unit. Elio is sprawled half on top of him, body warm and heavy with sleep. He loops his fingers into the tangle of curls that have spilled over Elio’s face, gently sweeping them back. Elio stirs, whining plaintively as his eyes blink open. 

“Sorry,” Oliver whispers. “Just moving your hair out of the drool.”

Elio snorts, turns his head and sinks his teeth into Oliver’s shoulder. “I don’t drool,” he croaks, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.

Oliver grins. “Okay.” 

They shift beneath the blanket. Elio stretches, limbs reaching, muscles going taut for a moment before relaxing again. He drapes his arm across Oliver’s chest and hooks a leg over his thigh. “Should we get up?” he murmurs, head tilted so his lips graze the curve of Oliver’s jaw. 

“I suppose,” Oliver yawns, though he makes no move to do so. His fingers slowly trail up and down Elio’s back. 

“What time is it?” Elio asks. “What _day_ is it?”

Oliver chuckles. “It’s Wednesday.”

Elio hums. “I start classes on Tuesday,” he sighs. “You?”

“Monday,” Oliver mutters, lips pressed to Elio’s hairline. “What happens then?” he asks after a moment. 

“What do you mean?” Elio frowns. When Oliver doesn’t answer, he props himself up on his elbow, head resting on the heel of his hand, and folds his other arm on top of Oliver’s chest. “What happens when?”

Oliver swallows. “I have to go back to work. You have to go back to school. Will we see each other during the week — after classes? At night? Or only on weekends? Is it—” he cuts himself off, teeth clicking harshly as he bites back any more desperate words from spilling out.

“We’ll see each other whenever we can,” Elio shrugs. “Isn’t that how it works when you’re—” he waves his hand into the negligible space between them. 

“It is, but is that—” Oliver hesitates. “What are we? Are we just—”

“What do you want us to be?” Elio interrupts, then quiets himself, chewing at the inside of his cheek. 

“Together,” Oliver supplies. Quick, sure.

Elio sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, picks at the hem of the pillowcase. Oliver reaches up, presses the crease of his thumb to the dip of Elio’s chin, presses harder, harder, until his mouth drops open. Until he wraps his lips around Oliver’s skin and sucks. Elio’s tongue swirls over the pad of Oliver’s finger, teeth gently dragging after it. It would be sensual, if Oliver didn’t recognize the pensive expression on his face. He tugs gently and Elio lets him go, turns his face to the cup of Oliver’s hand and kisses it. 

“Ask me,” Oliver says. 

Elio breathes into Oliver’s palm, the warmth of his breath leaving a damp spot in its wake. He closes his eyes for a long moment. When he looks at Oliver again there’s a startling sharpness there. “What does _together_ mean to you?”

Oliver’s brow furrows. It’s almost exactly what he was expecting, but he’s at a sudden loss for an appropriate answer. He opens and closes his mouth, then puffs a heavy breath through his nose. 

“It’s okay,” Elio shakes his head, offers him a weak smile, starts to roll away. “You don’t have to—”

“No, Elio, come back,” Oliver reaches for him, arm around his waist before he can slide out of the bed. Pulling him close, not letting the moment end. “It’s not that I can’t.”

Elio watches him quietly, the kind of practiced resignation that mimics the stormy days of their summer together. Oliver sighs and yanks the blanket over both of their heads. 

“What are we doing?” Elio asks, a confused laugh suddenly bubbling out of him. 

Oliver leans in, presses their foreheads together and shrugs. He closes his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Are we hiding from something?” 

“No,” Oliver answers quickly, and this, at least, eases some of Elio’s concern. 

“Okay,” Elio’s voice drops to a whisper. He slips an arm around Oliver’s waist. 

“I like coming home to you,” Oliver admits, soft but clear inside their cocoon. “I like you being here. All the time. I think it could be good.”

Elio’s grin widens as Oliver speaks. Blooming across his face, lighting his eyes, flushing his cheeks. “It could be,” he nods. “I think it could be.”

—————

They let it happen gradually. An almost natural progression of a guaranteed course. Winter recess comes to an end, but Elio still has a lease with several months left on it. He still has furniture that needs to be sold, trashed, moved, or given away. “Definitely trashed,” Oliver mutters one night as they discuss possibilities. He rolls over and winces at the screech of Elio’s bed frame. “Definitely,” he repeats, though Elio pointedly ignores him.

There are early morning lessons booked with students downtown. Late night gigs booked at Village bars. For as much as he’d like to, for as much as he does try, Elio can’t uproot himself overnight without re-evaluating his schedule, his workload, his commute. 

“There’s no rush,” Oliver assures him. He rolls his eyes when Elio nods quietly, lips pushed to the side. “Hey,” Oliver tosses his book onto the coffee table. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” 

Oliver scoots forward on the sofa, takes Elio’s notebook and pen from his hands and tosses them aside, as well. “You know what,” he murmurs, turning and laying his head in Elio’s lap. “I want you to be here,” he explains. “But I don’t want it to be stressful for you.”

Elio sighs, drops one hand to Oliver’s chest and winds the other into his hair. “I’m impatient.”

“I’m aware,” Oliver chuckles. He closes his eyes as Elio’s fingers drag over his scalp. “You don’t have to be. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” Elio concedes. “I just wanted it to be easy.”

“It is easy. You’re the one who told me that, remember?” Oliver smiles. He reaches up to curl his hand behind Elio’s neck, tugging him down for a kiss. “It’s just time, that’s all.”

Their schedules are often in conflict with one another. They call throughout the week, murmur sleepy goodnights, sometimes more. When Elio can’t stay over, or when the nights apart begin to wear on them, true to his word Oliver packs a bag and goes downtown. Sprawls out on the hardwood floor and grades papers while Elio plucks his guitar. Closes his eyes when Elio presses the scratchy foam of cheap headphones to his ear and listens to a staticky recording he’s made of himself playing at the school studio. Falls asleep in that rickety old bed, fights with the tiny shower. Loves every minute of it.

Tuesday quickly becomes Oliver’s favorite night of the week. His classes end in the late afternoon and he takes his time walking home from campus, occasionally stopping to pick up a bottle of wine or something to cook for dinner. His heart beats faster as he gets closer to his apartment, warmth rushing through his veins as he walks through the front door. 

“Hey,” Elio breathes out when he sees Oliver walk into the room. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

And Oliver smiles, because it’s Tuesday. And on Tuesdays, he comes home to Elio. Usually curled up on the sofa, giant headphones over his ears, cord trailing along the floor to the stereo. Oliver’s lost count of how many times he’s almost tripped on that cord. Instead he catalogs Elio’s sheepish grins as he rushes to unplug, shoving the headphones into his overnight bag and muttering apologies. 

Oliver pulls a face each time he does it, waves the apology away with a shake of his head. He doesn’t want Elio to feel like a guest. He starts thinking about how to make the apartment less his and more theirs.

For as much as Oliver loves Tuesdays, it’s Wednesday mornings that Elio looks forward to the most. Waking up to the whisper-skim of Oliver’s fingers over the flat of his belly, warm breath and soft lips at his nape, hard cock pressed snug against his ass. Slow, lazy fucks that never seem to end, leaving them both panting, sweaty and heavy in each others arms. Asleep again for hours, neither of them having to be anywhere until late afternoon. 

They try to spend most weekends together. It doesn’t always work out, but they make the best of the ones that do. Some Fridays, Elio turns up at Oliver’s office on campus, leans into the doorframe and watches him at his desk. Murmurs, “_Professor,_” with his voice dropped low and husky. A knowing smirk on his lips when Oliver’s eyes snap up to meet his. 

Sometimes, Oliver meets Elio at Juilliard. Slips into the practice room and listens to him play, surprising him with a standing ovation. Charmed by the flush it brings to Elio’s cheeks. 

More and more of Elio’s life is scattered around Oliver’s apartment. His clothes in Oliver’s drawers and hanging in his closet. An extra toothbrush in the bathroom, a pair of sneakers kicked off beside the front door. Loose pages of sheet music are strewn across Oliver’s coffee and kitchen tables. One day he discovers, mid-lecture, that a sheet of Elio’s music somehow managed to get shuffled in with his papers. He imagines Elio hunched over a piano, looking up for his next movement and finding Oliver’s lecture notes. His mouth twists to suppress his amusement as he clears his throat, sets the page aside and continues. 

Every reminder of Elio’s presence in his life, in his home, fills Oliver with a kind of serene contentment he never thought he’d truly feel. He tumbles the cleaned contents of his hamper out onto his bed and finds Elio’s boxers and socks mixed in with his own. He smiles and folds them into one of the dresser drawers. Thinks about the near future, about his home being _their_ home.

—————

The slam of the front door startles Oliver from sleep. He’s half out of bed when he hears Elio swearing quietly in French, followed shortly by the careful tread of his feet on the stairs. Oliver relaxes, sinks back against the pillow as the bedroom door is carefully nudged open. Elio squints into the dark, sighing when he sees Oliver awake. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, shuffling into the room and pushing the door closed behind him. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s okay,” Oliver stretches an arm toward him in invitation. “Everything all right?” His voice is sleep-soft and low and Elio only wants to curl against him and close his eyes.

Elio nods, tugs his sweater over his head and tosses it somewhere he’ll worry about later. “Just practicing and it got really late, so I went home and then—” he shrugs.

Oliver snorts when Elio climbs onto the bed and settles completely on top of him, digging both arms under his back. 

“And then?” he asks, amused. He hugs Elio to his chest, one hand between his shoulder blades, the other slipping beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt, splaying wide at the small of his back. 

Elio sighs, turns and rubs his face against Oliver’s chest. “I couldn’t sleep.” 

Oliver hums. It’s a problem he’s becoming achingly familiar with. He skims his palm up and down Elio’s back, stilling at the rise of his ass. His finger traces along the band of Elio’s underwear. “Where are your pants?” he asks. 

“Took ‘em off downstairs,” Elio slurs. “‘M too noisy. You have class early tomorrow. Was afraid to wake you.”

Oliver tilts his head, brushes his lips over Elio’s hair. “Do you want to get under the covers?”

Elio shakes his head, mumbles something incoherent, but gives no indication of moving. Oliver gently rolls them, spilling Elio onto the mattress. Elio’s eyes blink open as Oliver’s pulling the blanket over their shoulders. He curls onto his side, slips his hand beneath the pillow. His fingers find the delicate skin at the inside of Oliver’s wrist, dragging back and forth until they draw a shiver, a soft noise at the back of Oliver’s throat. 

Elio swallows audibly, wraps his hand around Oliver’s wrist, thumb pressed to the persistent beat of his pulse. “Is it okay if I stay?” he whispers. 

“Of course it is,” Oliver frowns, watches Elio’s eyes searching his in the dark. 

“Not just for tonight,” his hand tightens around Oliver’s wrist. “I mean, I want—”

Oliver nods and leans in, kisses his forehead, nose, lips. He cups Elio’s cheek, makes sure he’s looking. That he sees. “Stay,” he whispers. “Please, stay.”

—————

Elio wakes up alone on Saturday. He runs his hand over the empty space beside him and frowns, finding it cool to the touch. Flopping onto his back he stretches, whining at the satisfying pull in his muscles. He lets himself slump back to the mattress and listens for the clink of silverware, the sizzle-crack of oil spitting in a pan, water running in the sink, for any signs that Oliver might be downstairs. Instead there’s a soft rustle of paper coming from down the hall. Elio sighs, tosses the blanket aside and goes into the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth. 

He digs his favorite pair of Oliver’s sweatpants out of the dresser and tugs them on. The noise from down the hall is different now. He wrinkles his nose at what sounds like something sliding across the wooden floor. The door to Oliver’s office is open, but the room is empty when Elio peeks his head in. He nudges open the door to the spare room that Oliver uses for storage. 

Beyond a cursory glance, he’s hasn’t paid much attention to the space before — he hasn’t had much reason to. The room is roughly the same size and layout as the office, though essentially undecorated and unfinished, so it appears a bit bigger. Against the left wall, which the room shares with Oliver’s office, there’s a worn, but cozy looking sofa. Elio peers around and notes that this is the only piece of furniture, and takes up almost the entire span of the wall, leaving perhaps a foot of space on either side. Oliver is sprawled in the middle of the sofa flipping through a notebook. There’s a stack of papers balanced on each of his thighs. On the floor in front of him are four cardboard boxes, filled to various levels with an assortment of papers, books, clothes, and random knick-knacks.

Elio knocks softly on the door frame. “Morning,” he smiles, shuffling into the room and toeing at one of the boxes. “What’s all this?”

“Hey,” Oliver gathers the papers he’s looking through into a pile and tosses them into the nearest box. “It’s just some of my old research notes. Bunch of stuff I should have sorted through a long time ago.” He stands, brushing his hands together. “I keep meaning to clear all the junk out of this room and never get around to it.”

“Ah,” Elio points at the sofa, “I like that. You should keep it.”

“Yeah?” Oliver grins. “That’s the first piece of furniture I ever bought with my own money,” he says with a fond chuckle. “We can leave it in here if you like it.”

Elio nods, turns and circles the room, peeks through the blinds. “So, are you gonna turn this into a guest room or something?” 

“Actually, I was thinking maybe a studio. Or a practice room, at the very least,” Oliver explains. “For you.”

Elio’s mouth falls open. He looks around the room again, taking it in with a newfound understanding. He moves slowly toward Oliver, stopping just in front of him. “For me?”

Oliver nods, backs up a few steps and gestures at the far wall. “The stairs would be a hassle, but we could definitely fit an upright piano. Or one of those high-end keyboards,” he frowns. “I’m not sure if they’re comparable enough for you to regularly play on, though. We can always look into it, if you’re interested. That desk you have in your apartment would fit, maybe over there, unless you want to get something different, but it seemed fine. And obviously we can get a stand for your guitar, and something to store all your music—” he stops, realizing that he’s rambling. That Elio is staring, wide-eyed, and hasn’t said more than two words. 

“Am I—” he starts, stops. “Is this okay?” 

Elio licks his lips, eyes wandering around the room once more. He steps forward, falling against Oliver’s chest, arms thrown round his neck like a sling. Oliver grunts, stumbles back with the sudden weight of him, landing them both on the sofa. Elio settles over Oliver’s lap, a giddy laugh bubbling out of him when they lock eyes. He drops his forehead to Oliver’s sternum, takes a deep breath and blows it out, Oliver feels the warmth of it push through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. He smooths his hand up and down Elio’s back. 

“I didn’t mean to rush anything,” Oliver says quietly.

Elio’s head flies up. “You didn’t,” he breathes out. “I’m just—” he shakes his head. “_Is this okay?_” he mimics Oliver’s question, drops his head back, shoulders quaking as he laughs quietly. “This is a dream.” 

“I’ve already pinched you once,” Oliver’s brows lift slightly. “If I promise it’s not a dream, does that mean your answer is—”

“Yes,” Elio laughs. He curls his arms around Oliver’s shoulders, plants kisses over the line of his brow, at his temple, whispers into hair. “Yes, yes, yes.”

————

By the following weekend, most of Elio’s apartment is packed. While he’s at his morning lesson, Oliver combs over the apartment, neatly tucking any forgotten items into the remaining open boxes. Elio was able to find a friend to sublet the place until the lease runs out. Much to Oliver’s delight, the guy also needed a bed, so they’re leaving the rickety death trap behind. 

Oliver is sitting on the floor, loading a small box with books from Elio’s handmade bookshelf when the door unlocks and swings open behind him.

“Hey,” Elio smiles, just slightly breathless from having run up the stairs. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get back sooner,” he drops his coat and bag in a heap by the door. “My last student has an overly chatty mother.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Oliver waves off his apology. “You were pretty much done, I just caught a few things here and there. I’m gonna finish packing this up and then we can load the rest of the boxes.”

Elio kneels beside him on the floor and peers into the box. “Sounds good,” he looks at the misshapen bookshelf, runs his hand over its horribly slanted top shelf. “I suppose it’s time to get rid of this thing.” 

Oliver makes a face. “Why would you get rid of it?”

“It doesn’t really fit with your decor,” Elio snorts. “And it’s not exactly,” he waves both hands in front of the lopsided wooden structure. “Fully functional.”

“I like it,” Oliver shrugs. “We’re taking it with us.”

“Oliver,” Elio shakes his head, chuckling. “You don’t have to— it’ll just fall apart.”

“So, we’ll put it back together,” Oliver reasons. He slides the last book neatly into the box and, tucking the flaps closed, hops to his feet and pushes the box toward the door. He turns back to the shelf, then scans the apartment for a moment, perking up when he notices a stack of towels perched on the bathroom sink. “I’m sure it’ll hold up if I pad it.” 

Elio stares at him, an open-mouthed smile that’s as much adoring as it is confused. Oliver retrieves the towels and drops them on the floor. He carefully pulls the shelf away from the wall, sliding it along the floor so he has enough room to maneuver around it. 

“Hand me one of those,” he nods at the pile of towels.

“You really want this thing in your home?” Elio laughs, unfolding the first towel in the stack and handing it over.

Oliver frowns, a tiny wrinkle forming between his brows. “You built it, with your own hands, in a drunken stupor,” he says, pointing at the little shelf now standing between them. “It’s one of the most delightful things I’ve ever seen.” He gently wraps the towel over the top of the shelf and gestures for Elio to hand him another.

Elio snorts and drags his hands over his face. “Oh no, you just want to tell people that story when they visit.”

“Well, it makes for a wonderful ice breaker, you have to admit,” Oliver beams, then ducks his head, busying himself with the task at hand. “And it’ll be our home now, not mine.”

Elio smiles, giddy and warm and light all over. He wants to leap into Oliver’s arms and spin around the room until they both collapse in a heap of breathless laughter. He doesn’t want to break the shelf Oliver is determined to preserve, though. Instead, he pushes up from the floor and cups Oliver’s cheeks, kissing him soundly. 

Oliver grins, butts his head against Elio’s chin and blows a raspberry into his neck until Elio laughs and shoves him away. 

“Truck’s due back at three,” Oliver reminds him, settling back down to finish wrapping the shelf. 

Elio nods. “I’m gonna do a check,” he says, gesturing widely around the newly empty expanse of his apartment. “Make sure I didn’t forget anything.”

—————

It’s suddenly all so easy. The packing, the move. The seamless way Elio slips into Oliver’s home — filling the emptiness with music, brightening the dull spaces. They fit each other like old gloves. So, of course it’s easy, for Oliver to slide things over. To make room. He does it happily. Would do more and more. Whatever Elio wants, or needs, he’d give. 

Elio feels at home already — he has for some time now. There’s a huge relief that comes with seeing his clothes consistently hung in the closet and folded into drawers instead of stuffed into an overnight bag and tossed in a corner. With knowing he doesn’t have to think about splitting his time between two locations anymore, or wonder whose bed they’ll sleep in that night. He likes waking up in a bed that is once again _theirs_. Likes the morning sounds of Oliver tinkering around in the kitchen, the tap of a plate on the kitchen table, the scrape of metal on the stove. 

He clears the dishes after they eat. Smiling each time Oliver looks up from his paperwork, newspaper, crossword, and catches his eye.

“You don’t have to do that,” Oliver starts, setting his pen down. 

“I know,” Elio nods at the paper folded in Oliver’s hand. “The answer to 54-down is _Halle,_” the city’s name flipping off his tongue in an accent that’s probably more French than German. Oliver looks down at the clue, counts the empty squares and huffs when Elio bends to kiss the top of his ear. 

On days when Oliver leaves early, Elio makes the bed. It’s not always neat, the comforter only lays flat half the time, but he straightens their pillows, smooths out the sheets, changes them if they need to be changed. While Oliver’s still in the shower, he shuffles downstairs and puts the coffee on, has a mug waiting on the table by the time Oliver comes down and kisses him good morning.

Elio’s parents are delighted, and not even a bit surprised when he tells them, sending their love and plenty of kisses to both. His father quietly offers Elio his continued financial support, which he feels both grateful and guilty for accepting.

“Hey,” Oliver nudges him, dropping beside Elio on the sofa after they’ve hung up. “It’s only for school expenses, you’ve agreed.”

“I know, it’s just,” Elio shrugs, chews at his lip. “I’d hoped not to have to, by this point.”

“We all do,” Oliver acknowledges. 

“You didn’t,” Elio eyes him.

“My parents refused,” Oliver corrects. “There’s a big difference. They were able to and categorically refused. If they’d have offered, I would have accepted. It would have made my school and work load easier, that’s for sure.”

Elio pinches the leg of Oliver’s trousers. “I’m glad they didn’t,” he says, tilts his head against Oliver’s shoulder. “We might not have met.”

Oliver turns his lips to Elio’s forehead. “I’m glad, too,” he murmurs. 

—————

Oliver leans on the door frame for a moment, watches Elio’s fingers weave a pattern of invisible music through the air. His head rolls slightly against the armrest, one foot moves as if a pedal is beneath it. Oliver smiles. He takes a few steps into the room, reaches the shelf behind Elio’s head, where the stereo sits, and turns the music down just slightly. 

Elio tilts his head back, pulls the headphones down around his neck. There’s no annoyance, no jolt of surprise. He smiles, welcoming. “You’re home late.” 

“Office hours,” Oliver sighs, loosens his tie and hangs it over Elio’s desk chair, slips his suit jacket off and does the same. He slides his hands into his pockets and perches at the edge of the desk. 

Elio reaches out, hand open, palm up. “Come,” he says, a soft command.

Oliver pushes forward, slides their fingers together. He lets Elio coax him down, slouches against him, back to chest, settling into the warm vee of his thighs. Elio tugs the headphones off and lays them down on the floor, pulls the cord from the stereo and lets music fill the room. His fingers skim over Oliver’s shoulders, right hand coming around to undo the first few buttons of his dress shirt and slip inside. Oliver closes his eyes, smiles as Elio gently taps a melody onto his chest. He picks up the tune, hums quietly along to the music, to Elio’s fingers on his skin. Elio puffs a tiny breath of laughter against the side of his head and kisses his temple. 

“We’re performing a duet,” Elio whispers. His fingers don’t break their pattern.

Oliver chuckles. “A terrific twosome, hmm?” 

“Yeah,” Elio smiles against his skin. “Something like that.”

Oliver tugs Elio’s right leg up to drape over his own. He looks at their tangled limbs on the sofa, at Elio’s toes poking out from the frayed hems of navy blue sweatpants. Oliver’s sure these pants were his once, merely weeks ago, maybe a month, but they’re more Elio’s now, than they ever were his. He can’t imagine wearing them again, only sees them hanging from slim hips, pooling around pale feet as they shuffle across the floor. 

“Did you have dinner?” Elio asks, his voice a soft rumble.

Oliver nods, “Picked something up between appointments. You?”

He feels Elio’s shoulder shrug beneath him. “Yeah, I made something here.”

Oliver tilts his head to the side, eyes him skeptically. “You _made_ something?”

Elio’s brows lift in mock indignation. “Yes, I _made_ something,” he grits out, grinning as he slips his hand further into Oliver’s shirt and pinches his nipple. He giggles when Oliver gasps and wraps a hand around his wrist, twisting against him. 

“What did you make?” Oliver laughs, arches up to press his lips to Elio’s jaw. 

Elio grins. “Peanut butter and jelly.” 

Oliver hums, curling onto his side. “Are you still hungry? I can make you something,” he says, even as he tucks his face against Elio’s neck and closes his eyes. 

“No,” Elio shakes his head, kisses Oliver’s hair, smiles. “I’m full.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some more actual plot coming. But mostly domestic fluff. And uh. Some more porn.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of Elio's practice has actually been for a reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, remember when I mentioned there'd be more porn?

It’s about a month into the semester when Oliver realizes that Elio hasn’t said anything about his recital schedule for the season. He’s been spending more and more time at the school practice rooms, and staying up in his home studio even later than usual. Oliver keeps waiting for some kind of clue as to what Elio’s been working on, but there’s been no mention of an upcoming show.

Oliver hesitates over bringing it up. He doesn’t want to scratch at a wound if it hasn’t healed, but he can’t imagine that Elio is still upset, and more than anything, that’s what compels him to ask.

It’s an early night, for a change. Elio is taking a break from practice, laying on the sofa in his studio and reading Oliver’s worn copy of _The Inferno_. His feet are propped up on one armrest, head on the other. He looks up when Oliver knocks gently and leans against the doorframe.

“Got room for one more?” Oliver asks, nodding toward the end of the sofa. 

Elio smiles and pulls his legs up to make room as Oliver drops onto the cushions. He wraps his hands around Elio’s feet and tugs them into his lap.

“Doing some light reading before dinner?” Oliver teases.

“Yeah,” Elio chortles. He flips the book closed and reaches over his head to set it on the side table. “I like looking at your old notes in the margins,” he shrugs. “It’s interesting to see which passages you underlined.”

“Ah, so you’re mining it for a deeper understanding of my psyche?”

“No,” Elio shakes his head, poking his toe into Oliver’s palm. “I already have that.”

Oliver smiles. He presses his thumb into the arch of Elio’s foot until he groans and flexes his feet forward, toes curling and relaxing. “No practice tonight?”

“Taking a well earned break.”

“Good,” Oliver nods, squeezing gently at his ankle. “You’ve been putting in a lot of hours lately,” he pauses, scrapes his teeth against his bottom lip. “Do you have any performances coming up that you’re preparing for?”

The corner of Elio’s mouth curves up in a half grin. “You mean you haven’t sneaked over to my school to look at the schedules?”

Oliver reaches out, slips both hands under Elio’s shirt and pinches at his sides. Elio immediately gasps and curls in on himself, arms flying down to ward off the incoming attack. Oliver’s fingers travel up and down his torso, finding beloved patches of ticklish skin, dancing there and scurrying off to the next. Elio wriggles madly, laughter weakening his ability to fight back.

“Stop, stop,” Elio begs breathlessly, sliding down to lay flat against the sofa cushions. 

Oliver relents, crawling over and settling on top of him, arms tucked under his shoulders. He wraps a long curl of Elio’s hair around his finger. “At the risk of dredging up a sore subject,” he says quietly. “If you are playing in any recitals, I would very much like to attend.” He smiles, but there’s an uncertainty in it that makes Elio’s heart ache.

Elio reaches up and traces the pad of his thumb over Oliver’s lips. “Can we talk about it in a few days? It has nothing to do with you, or—” he waves a hand into the narrow space between them.

“Is it anything to do with this top secret project you’ve been working on?” Oliver ducks his head, noses along the curve of Elio’s jaw until he shivers. 

“Yes,” Elio admits, closing his eyes as Oliver’s breath tickles his skin. “And it’s not top secret,” he grumbles. “I just don’t want to jinx anything.”

Oliver nods, smoothing wayward curls from Elio’s forehead. “Okay,” he whispers, and kisses him gently. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“I can play something for you now,” Elio offers, dancing the tips of his fingers over Oliver’s scalp, drawing tiny circles behind his ears. “Anything you like.”

“No,” Oliver murmurs, eyes closed, head tilting heavily into Elio’s hands. “You said you were taking a break.”

“I don’t mind,” Elio insists, smiling as Oliver lowers his head to rest against his chest. 

“This is good,” Oliver mumbles. “Just play what you’re playing now.”

Elio chuckles, shifts to hook his leg around the back of Oliver’s knee. 

“I should move,” Oliver mutters. “We don’t both fit.”

“You say that every time,” Elio laughs. “Yet here we both are.”

Oliver smiles. “Wise ass.”

Elio hums in agreement. “The wisest.”

—————

Elio leaves his final committee performance in a haze. He’s distantly aware of having spoken with the review board, of shaking their hands as they filed out of the room. Of brief hugs with the five other students who’d made it to the end — five incredible performers, all carrying the same weight of sleepless nights, endless practice, of single-minded determination in their eyes. He remembers the vice-like hug from Helen, the wobble of pride in her voice as she corralled him into her office and prodded him into a chair facing her desk.

“Give yourself a few hours to take it in,” she slides a folder across the desk, flipping it open in front of him. “And once you have, I want you to think about this.”

He looks down at the papers as she lifts her hand away. Sheet music, a flier, a packet of pages stapled in the top left corner, dense lines of type, neat yellow post-its tabbed off the sides. Elio’s eyes flit back up to hers. “What is this?”

“I didn’t want to mention it until this was over,” she shrugs. “One of them is a former student of mine. They need a replacement— just four nights, and all at Carnegie. Their pianist’s wife is having a baby, but he’ll be back, so they can’t offer you anything permanent,” she cautions. “But the pay is good, and they’re doing very well. The tour has gotten quite a bit of publicity in the classical, and even contemporary circuits,” she chuckles. “I think it could be a good thing for you.”

Elio picks up the flier and scans it. “So, they want me to audition?”

“You already have,” Helen grins. “They’ve been to several of your performances. Even a few of these committee reviews. They want you. It’s only a matter of whether or not you’re interested.”

“I’ll do it,” Elio shakes his head. “I don’t need to think about it.”

“Oy,” Helen groans, waving a hand at him. She slumps back in her chair with a laugh. “Always head first, hmm? You sure you don’t want to think it over? Today was a big day.”

Elio pulls the folder into his lap, closing it. “I’ll read it over at home, but tell them I said yes.”

—————

The moment he walks through the front door, an immense exhaustion presses down on him. The kind of tired he hasn’t allowed himself to be since the end of last semester. Elio kicks off his shoes, drops his bag beside the sofa, sheds his jacket and lies down on the living room floor. His eyes are closed only a moment before he shoots back up again and slides forward, digging the folder from his bag and clutching it to his chest. He flips it open and tries to focus, but the weight behind his eyes is too much. He lets it fall to the floor beside him and lays back down.

It seems like mere seconds have passed when something jolts him to the surface. Elio grunts into the crease of his elbow, arm still flung over his face to block out the light. The front door swings closed and the familiar sound of Oliver’s shoes in the entryway drifts into the room. He listens to the quiet zip of Oliver’s jacket, the shifting of hangers in the hall closet, feels sleep creeping over him again as Oliver walks down the hall, the patter of his shoes coming to a stutter-stop when he passes the living room.

“Elio? Are you all right?” 

The quiet concern in Oliver’s voice startles him to wake again. He wriggles his toes, stretches his other arm up over his face and arches his back off the floor. “Tired,” he yawns into both palms, dragging them down his face. He reaches one hand up and Oliver grasps it, pulling him easily to his feet. Elio lets himself fall forward, arms looping around his waist. “I had a big day,” he confesses to the warm curve of Oliver’s neck.

“Oh, yeah?” Oliver’s soft laugh tickles his ear, fingers twisting gently into his hair. “You wanna tell me about it?”

Elio nods. He tilts his head back and nips Oliver’s chin. “Yeah,” he smiles. “Yes, I do.”

He lets Oliver lead him into the kitchen and deposit him into a chair. “Have you eaten?” 

“I grabbed something after committee review,” Elio mumbles absently. He watches Oliver pull two glasses down from the cabinet and fill them with water. 

“Committee review?” Oliver asks, sliding a glass over to Elio and dropping into the adjacent chair. He pulls Elio’s socked feet into his lap. 

Elio nods and takes a sip of water. “Juilliard holds this annual competition. It’s a rigorous process, making it through all the rounds of elimination, committee reviews, performances,” he pauses and takes a deep breath. “The winner gets to be a concerto soloist with the Juilliard Orchestra when they play at Carnegie Hall,” Elio says, nodding slowly when Oliver’s eyebrows lift.

“I’ve entered three times before, but wound up withdrawing or not advancing very far. The amount of work it requires is intense and I’ve never cut back on anything else while taking it on. Just thought I’d be able to handle my regular coursework, my usual recitals, and all the additional work for committee—” he shrugs. “Anyway, at the end of last semester I found out I’d made it into the finals for the first time. I spoke with Helen and decided to pull out of all of the recitals at the beginning of this semester so I could focus on practicing for the committee performances, instead. That’s what I was working on while I was in Italy, and since I’ve been back, as well.”

Dropping his hands flat to the table, Elio curls his fingers and plays a scale over invisible keys. He stops when Oliver’s hand slides beneath one of his, thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“Has it helped?”

Elio chews at the inside of his cheek, nodding as he lifts his head and meets Oliver’s eyes. “I won,” he says quietly, still trying to convince himself that it’s true. 

A huge smile blooms across Oliver’s face. “Elio, that’s—” he squeezes Elio’s fingers, lifts them to his lips and kisses his knuckles, his palm, his finger tips. “That’s _incredible!_ Carnegie Hall, that’s— are you okay? You seem—”

“I am. I’m fine,” Elio shakes his head. “I still can’t believe it’s real, you know? It’s just been—” he exhales, long and slow, slumping back in his chair. “It’s been a stressful process. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just didn’t want to tell anyone and then have to go through the whole song and dance of telling them that I’d failed again.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Oliver assures him. “And I wouldn’t call your previous attempts ‘failures’ — you changed your priorities,” he shrugs. “People do it all the time.”

Elio scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip. He brings Oliver’s hand to his cheek and holds it there, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

When he opens his eyes, Oliver is smiling at him. “Are you happy?” 

“Yes,” Elio whispers, turns his face to Oliver’s palm and kisses it, smiles against his skin.

“Then we should celebrate. I must have something tucked away somewhere,” Oliver gets up and takes a step toward the cabinets, but quickly spins back around and cups Elio’s cheek again. Grinning, he swoops down for a kiss that Elio giddily surges up to meet. Their teeth knock together as they laugh into each other’s mouths. 

“I don’t need anything special,” Elio insists, rising to follow Oliver as he searches through the small rack of bottles stowed in a cabinet beneath the kitchen counter. 

“I know you don’t _need_ it,” Oliver says, slipping a bottle of champagne out and holding it up, eyes bright. “I want you to have it.”

Elio recognizes the label and shakes his head. “That’s expensive,” he laughs. “We should at least save it for after the first show.”

“I’ll buy another,” Oliver grins, he sticks the bottle into the freezer and pulls glasses down from the upper cabinets. “First show? How many are there?”

“Oh! That’s the other thing that I didn’t—” Elio holds up a hand and runs into the living room, returning with the folder Helen had given him earlier. “Right after the committee decision, Helen brought me into her office and gave me this,” he holds up the flier.

Oliver scans the page. “A quartet performing at Carnegie,” he says with a confused frown. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Elio’s smile starts small and grows wider with each word he speaks. “They need a pianist to sub in for them during their New York shows. It would be shortly after the Juilliard show. They want me to do it,” he gestures toward the folder he’s tossed on the counter. “They already sent a contract.”

Oliver shuffles forward, dropping his arms over Elio’s shoulders and peering down at him with a proud smile. “It seems silly to ask, but—”

Elio snorts and bumps his forehead against Oliver’s chin. “I said yes, of course, I said yes,” he laughs.

“Have you told your parents?” 

“Not yet,” Elio winces at the shocked look on Oliver’s face. “I know, I know. I should call them now, I suppose, while the champagne chills.”

“You should,” Oliver agrees. “I’m sure they’ll want to come see you perform and they’ll need some time to make travel arrangements.” 

Elio nods and untucks button-down dress shirt he’s been wearing since early that morning. “I wanna change out of this, so I’ll call them from upstairs.” He presses a quick kiss to Oliver’s cheek and backs away. “Bring that up when it’s ready?” he points toward the freezer and winks. Oliver snorts and waves him off. 

Oliver can hear Elio laughing as he climbs the stairs and approaches their bedroom. He finds him pacing the floor slowly, receiver pressed to his ear. He’s barefoot and still in the same clothes, though he’s managed to unbutton his shirt. 

“_Oui, oui,_” Elio giggles into the phone. “_Moi aussi, je t'aime._” He sets the phone aside and flops down on the bed. “They send their love,” he says, beaming up at Oliver. 

“I hope you sent mine,” he says, setting the chilled champagne bottle down on the dresser and lining the glasses up beside it. 

“I did,” Elio nods. “They’re planning on coming in on Friday before the concert, but might stay for Passover. Is that okay?”

“Of course it is. I didn’t even think about the holidays,” Oliver says. “When is all this happening?”

“Yeah, I didn’t realize, either,” Elio huffs. “The Juilliard Orchestra is the first Saturday in April, Pesach is the following Tuesday. The quartet is here about two weeks later.”

“Do they give you a certain amount of complimentary tickets for guests, or do I need to go to the box office?”

“Oh,” Elio frowns. “I didn’t even think to ask, I was in such a fog after they told me I’d won. Though I do think I heard something about tickets for Juilliard. I’m not sure about the quartet, if you let me know which show you’d like to come to, I’m sure I can find out.”

“All of them,” Oliver shrugs, as though it’s the most obvious answer. 

Elio laughs, head falling back against the pillow. “I definitely want you to come to the Juilliard concert, but you don’t need to come to all four of the other shows. It’ll probably be the same set each night — or at least very similar.”

“Hey, don’t— It’s not a matter of _needing_ to,” Oliver sprawls out beside him on the bed. “I _want_ to. I enjoy watching you perform. I’ve even seen you play the same set more than once… I am somewhat of a connoisseur, after all—” he grins broadly and Elio snorts, plants his palm over Oliver’s face. Oliver tilts his head back and nips at the side of Elio’s hand. “I am,” he insists. “And there’s always something different, even if you’re playing the same exact piece, you manage to imbue it with some part of yourself that’s—” he shrugs, eyes lowered to the bedspread.

Elio stares at him, fond and touched beyond words. Oliver leans forward, kisses him and pulls away, leaves Elio chasing his lips with a soft mewl. Oliver hops off the bed and grabs the champagne bottle, peeling the foil from the top and expertly popping the cork. Elio joins him as he fills the two glasses and sets the bottle down. 

“To Elio Perlman: Live at Carnegie Hall,” Oliver grins, clinking his glass against Elio’s. 

“That’s not entirely accurate,” Elio laughs, taking a sip.

Oliver cocks a brow at him. “It’s not inaccurate.”

Elio snorts and shakes his head, downs the rest of his champagne in one gulp. “This stuff is _good._”

“Have some more,” Oliver insists. “We may as well finish it. It won’t be as good tomorrow.”

Elio sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, watches the bob of Oliver’s throat as he swallows. He sets his glass down quietly, takes Oliver’s from his hand and sets it aside, as well. Oliver tilts his head, a curious smile on his lips. Elio picks up the bottle, runs his tongue over his teeth, smiling hungrily. He reaches out and grips the collar of Oliver’s shirt, backs him up toward the bed until it hits the backs of his knees and he drops to the mattress. Elio holds the bottle by its neck, lets it swing loosely from his fist as he slowly works open the buttons of Oliver’s shirt with his other hand. 

Oliver spreads his knees, slides his hands up the outsides of Elio’s thighs and curves around to his ass, pulls him in closer. The last button comes loose and Elio pushes Oliver’s shirt off his shoulders, tugs it down his arms and tosses it to the floor. Oliver watches as Elio lifts the bottle to his own lips, circles the rim with this tongue and tips it back. He swoops down, kisses Oliver with his mouth full, lets champagne spill between them, over Oliver’s chin, down his neck. 

Elio drags his tongue from Oliver’s mouth, licks a wet trail over his jaw, sucks hard at the throb of his pulse. He pulls away to admire the mark he’s left behind, draws an X over the spot with his index finger. Oliver puffs out a breath of laughter, slides his hands to the button of Elio’s pants and flicks it open, tugs the zipper down. The side of Elio’s mouth curves up in a smile. He lets Oliver take the bottle from his hand, watches him cap the spout with his thumb and tilt it, letting champagne wash over the pad of his finger before turning it over again. 

Oliver looks up at him, mouth open in a playful smile, and traces his wet thumb in a circle around Elio’s left nipple. A long sigh stutters from Elio’s mouth as he feels his flesh tighten and pebble, as his eyes track the motion of Oliver’s hand. Oliver leans forward and takes the hardened bud between his teeth, tugs lightly until Elio gasps, hands flying up to fist in Oliver’s hair as he teases, kisses, sucks. Elio takes the bottle and drinks, gulps champagne in big, sloppy swallows that dribble down his chest. Oliver swipes his tongue across Elio’s skin, catches a tiny rivulet as it curves a path over his right nipple, follows its trail up and up and up until Elio’s groaning into his mouth. 

Elio nudges at Oliver’s hip, pushes until he’s sitting on the edge of the mattress again. He grips Oliver’s chin, drags the length of his thumb across both lips and forces them open. Oliver obediently tilts his head back and Elio smiles, bends and plants a soft kiss in the plump middle of Oliver’s bottom lip. With a steady hand, he pours champagne into Oliver’s mouth, cradles his chin and waits until he can see the tiny bubbles behind his bottom teeth, hears him breathing gently through his nose. He lowers the bottle, and leans in, rubs his thigh against Oliver’s crotch, feels the hard heat of his cock through the fabric of their pants. Oliver’s hands knead at Elio’s thighs, slide around his waist and under the elastic of his boxers, settle on the globes of his ass and squeeze. Elio dips his tongue between Oliver’s lips, just a taste, then grabs a fistful of his hair and tugs him forward, drinks from the cup of his mouth. Oliver groans as they trade warm champagne back and forth until it’s gone. 

With a gentle shove to his shoulders, Elio tips Oliver onto his back, grips the waistbands of his pants and boxers, and tugs them off. Oliver tries to sit up, reaches for the open flap of Elio’s pants, only to be slapped away. “Not yet,” Elio laughs, shaking his head and Oliver can’t help but laugh with him.

Oliver shifts back, moving further onto the bed. He brings his legs up, folds his hands behind his head and raises his eyebrows — half challenge, half question — _now what?_

Elio shimmies out of his pants, kicks them aside and yanks open the nightstand drawer. He fishes out a bottle of lube and tosses it onto the mattress beside Oliver’s hip. “For later,” he grins. Oliver’s laugh is a messy rasp of a thing when Elio takes the champagne from the nightstand and climbs over him, straddles his thighs and smooths a palm over his chest, down the arc of his ribs. His hand passes over Oliver’s cock, hard and leaking against his own belly, the heat of his skin so close, but not touching. 

Oliver rolls his hips, seeks contact and Elio smiles, shaking his head again. “Not—” he leans over, plants one hand on the bed, kisses Oliver, quick and dirty, “yet.” He skims away as Oliver chases his lips.

Elio tips champagne into the shallow valley of Oliver’s sternum and watches it slide up to and pool in his sternal notch.

Oliver arches away from the bed, laughing as Elio curls down and sucks champagne from his skin. “You’re making a mess,” he chuckles while Elio follows the trail to his clavicle, over the top of his shoulder.

“Then stop moving,” Elio bumps his nose into Oliver’s armpit, grins and pulls away. 

He settles over Oliver’s knees and pours more champagne into the dip of his belly, over the head of his cock, bites his lip at the sounds Oliver makes with each splash against his skin. He wants to empty the bottle over him, wants to get ten more bottles and do the same. Watch him writhe like this for hours. Elio brings the bottle to his lips, smiles around it and swigs it back, doesn’t swallow. He puts the bottle aside and squirms down further, settles between Oliver’s thighs.

Propping himself up on one elbow, Oliver reaches out and cups Elio’s cheek, thumbs at the fullness of it. Elio’s lips glisten as the pressure of Oliver’s fingers almost force him to spill. He takes Oliver’s hand and guides it to his crown.

Oliver holds his gaze, fingers curling gently into his hair. He breathes in, deep, when Elio grips his cock, when he brings the head to his wet lips and slowly opens them, takes him in. Oliver’s fist tightens when the tip of Elio’s tongue presses against him, slides back and forth beneath the head, finds the spot that makes him shiver. Champagne dribbles over Elio’s chin, spilling down Oliver’s shaft. Elio rests his arm across Oliver’s hips, takes him deep and swallows around him. Oliver groans, collapses onto his back, hips rocking up lightly. Elio sets both of his palms flat on the mattress and lifts himself to his knees. He keeps his head low, keeps Oliver in his mouth, the ring of his lips a tight circle and the pressure of his tongue a constant drag that makes Oliver cry out, gripping two fistfuls of Elio’s hair.

Elio stills over him and Oliver can hear the steady intake of breath from his nose, feels it against his skin. He loosens his grip, rubs his thumbs in circles in the tangled curls above Elio’s ears. Elio pulls his mouth off slowly, fists the base of Oliver’s cock and kisses down his length, points his tongue and runs it up and down along the seam of his balls. Oliver moans quietly, head tipped back, hips rolling at a steady pace, his cock leaking over Elio’s fingers.

Elio kisses his way back up, wanting to see Oliver’s face, wanting his eyes open, watching. “_Eliooo,_” he whispers. 

Oliver props himself up, reaches out to stroke Elio’s hair. “_Oliver,_” his voice is a wrecked murmur and Elio wants to crawl inside it and devour it at the same time.

Elio smiles, rubs his closed mouth slowly over the tip of Oliver’s cock, lets it wet his lips. “I want you to fuck my mouth,” he murmurs, words vibrating against Oliver’s skin. “And then I wanna fuck you.”

“_Please_,” Oliver mutters, swallows thickly. “_Yes. Yes, please_.”

Elio nods, plants his hands on either side of Oliver’s thighs. He opens his lips, lets the head of Oliver’s cock rest just against his tongue. Oliver cups the side of Elio’s jaw, strokes the other hand over his hair, splays his palm wide, fingertips pressing gently against his scalp. He brings Elio closer, slides his cock between his lips, into the warm, wet of his mouth. He watches Elio’s face, looks into his eyes and pushes in until his forearms lock on the mattress. Oliver stills, curls and uncurls his hands, listens to Elio breathe as he pulls almost all the way back out and thrusts back in with the same agonizingly slow pace. He repeats it one more time, a long, slow stroke against Elio’s tongue. He thrusts almost all the way in and stops, both hands curling to fists behind Elio’s ears. Oliver’s breath shudders out of him and he knows he won’t last much longer.

Elio loosens his arms and spreads his hands against the mattress, his fingers knock into the bottle of lube he’d tossed into the bed earlier and wrap around it. Oliver’s hips rock forward, fucking into his mouth in quick, short thrusts while Elio flips the bottle cap open, squeezes the contents onto his fingers, moves his hand between Oliver’s thighs. 

Oliver’s breath catches when Elio’s finger presses against his hole, circling the rim. He tugs at Elio’s hair, slides his cock almost all the away out of his mouth and waits until the tip of Elio’s finger breaches him, then fucks back in. He feels himself hit the back of Elio’s throat right as his finger slides all the away inside. Oliver curses when Elio swallows around him, when he curls his finger back and forth.

“I’m gonna come,” Oliver mutters, pulls Elio back and thrusts in again, again, again. “Fuck, Elio, I’m gonna—”

Elio slips his finger out, pushes back in with two as Oliver’s body trembles around him, as he spills down his throat. Oliver’s hands fly down to claw at Elio’s shoulder, to clutch at the sheets. His body arches up, then collapses to the mattress. His toes curl and release.

Elio keeps his eyes open the entire time, watches the muscles twitch in Oliver’s belly, the soft quiver of his thighs. He drinks greedily, takes everything Oliver’s body can give him, swallows around him until Oliver hisses and pushes him gently away. Elio pulls out and pulls off, slow and a little sloppy. Semen dots his lips and dribbles over his chin and he has the fleeting thought to ask Oliver if he has a camera so he can look at himself later on. He wipes his fingers on the sheets and crawls over Oliver’s exhausted form, lays on top of him and peers down into his heavy-lidded eyes. Oliver’s mouth curves, a slow grin that turns into a low, raspy laugh and Elio loves it. Loves him.

Oliver skims his hands up Elio’s back, over his shoulders, down his arms, picks his head up and licks the mess from his chin and his lips. Sucks the taste of himself from Elio’s tongue until Elio whimpers, hips grinding slowly against Oliver’s thigh. Oliver reaches down and pushes Elio’s boxers over the swell of his ass, slides one hand to the front and eases them past the hard line of his cock. Elio moans into his mouth, grinds down again, leaves a wet trail on Oliver’s skin.

Oliver wraps a hand around him and Elio jerks forward, thrusts into the circle of his fist, face pressed to Oliver’s shoulder. Oliver turns his head, hums against Elio’s ear, “How do you want me?”

Elio drags himself up, licks a stripe over Oliver’s jaw, kisses him. “Like this,” he murmurs, shifts down, bends his knees behind Oliver’s thighs. “Just like this.”

He finds the lube buried in the sheets near Oliver’s knee, uncaps it and squeezes it into his palm, tosses the bottle aside. He coats three fingers and touches the pads to Oliver’s entrance. Oliver sighs when Elio traces over him in a gentle circle, more heat than touch. “Tease,” he whispers.

Elio laughs, pushes two fingers in and Oliver gasps, curses. Groans when he pulls out, pushes back in with all three. Elio smooths a hand over Oliver’s thigh, lets it travel, hip, belly, ribs. Admires the sticky, sweaty mess of him as he curls his fingers, as Oliver’s hips begin a slow roll against him. Elio dips and kisses a soft trail from the center of Oliver’s chest to his belly button. He pulls his fingers out, strokes his still slicked hand over himself and presses the head of his cock against Oliver’s hole, watches it clench around him and bites back a moan. He braces one hand beside Oliver’s hip and guides his cock in at glacially slow pace, then Elio sprawls over Oliver’s chest, sweaty and so turned on he’s afraid to move. He closes his eyes, taking shallow breaths as Oliver cards fingers through his tangled curls and draws one leg up to hook behind his thigh, pushing him even deeper.

“Come on,” Oliver murmurs into his hair. “Fuck me.”

Elio shakes his head against Oliver’s shoulder, rolls his hips forward, gasps, and freezes. “Fuck, I’m not gonna last,” he whispers. 

“So, don’t last,” Oliver drags his hands down Elio’s back, lips soft against his ear. He matches the trail of his fingers to the pattern of Elio’s breathing. _In and up, out and down, in, up, out, down, in-up-out-down,_ until Elio’s hips take on the same, slow cadence. Elio picks his head up, dots kisses along Oliver’s collar bone, up his neck, over his chin, nips at his lower lip.

“El-ii-o,” he exhales, a broken whisper into Oliver’s mouth. 

Oliver breathes it in, sucks Elio’s tongue between his teeth. Kisses him and kisses him. Spills his own name back onto Elio’s lips. Elio moans, slides his mouth away, buries his face in the curve of Oliver’s neck, clutches a fistful of his hair, digs nails into his shoulder. Oliver wraps his arms tight around Elio’s back. He presses his forehead to the side of Elio’s head, loves the champagne sweet and sweaty smell of him, loves the way it feels when Elio’s inside him, when his hips pick up speed and the only sound in the room is the wet slide of skin on skin, the gasp of breath when it feels too good to cry out. 

Elio reaches down and wraps his fist around Oliver’s cock, hard again between their bellies. Oliver groans as Elio jerks him, quick, short strokes that match the rhythm of their hips. 

“You gonna come again?” Elio mutters against his ear.

Oliver nods, grinds his hips down to meet Elio’s, feels his body tensing. “Yeah.”

Elio speeds up, loses his rhythm. He feels Oliver clench around him, the warm spill over his own hand. He thrusts forward and groans, hips pumping helplessly as he empties himself. 

They lay panting against one another, skin tacky, sticking and unsticking as their bodies expand and contract. Elio’s limbs feel like lead weights, he curls his arms against Oliver’s flanks and shudders. 

“We’re a mess,” Oliver mumbles, eyes closed and exhausted. 

Elio hums in agreement, but doesn’t move. 

“We should at least shower,” Oliver adds. “Probably change the sheets.”

“I can’t move ever again,” Elio grumbles against his chest. 

Oliver snorts. “Well, you can’t play Carnegie Hall like this.”

Elio rubs his face against Oliver’s neck. “Who says?”

“It’s just a hunch,” Oliver grins. He rolls them, gently flips Elio onto his back, and sits up. “Shit, this is going to be a lot to clean up.”

“Maybe we should just move,” Elio sighs, sitting up and leaning against Oliver’s shoulder. 

“That seems impractical. I’d never find another deal like this,” Oliver mutters. “C’mon,” he says, pushing off the bed and taking Elio’s hand, tugging him toward the bathroom. “Let’s shower. We can figure out the rest later.”

Elio lets himself be dragged into the bathroom and prodded under the warm spray of the shower. He sighs when the water hits him, sagging against Oliver’s chest and smiling. Oliver gently turns him around to face the water. He lathers soap between his palms and smooths it over Elio’s chest, down his belly, up over his neck and shoulders. Elio tilts his head back, turns and sets his lips against Oliver’s jaw, hums in contentment as Oliver bathes him, shampoos his hair, rinses him clean. 

With sleep-heavy limbs, Elio lathers soap over Oliver’s body, circles around while Oliver shampoos his own hair, takes care in rinsing the sticky mess of champagne, lube, and come away. He puts the soap on the shelf and leans against Oliver’s chest, arms wrapped low around his waist. 

Oliver reaches past him and turns the water off. “C’mon,” he says. “Before it gets chilly.”

Elio takes the towel Oliver holds out for him, dragging it over himself and wrapping it around his hips. They slowly wander back into the bedroom. Elio digs two pairs of sweatpants out of the dresser, hands one to Oliver and steps into the other, tugging it up over his hips and dropping his towel to the floor. Oliver does the same, picks up their towels and goes to hang them over the shower door to dry. 

He comes back into the bedroom and stands beside Elio in front of the bed. They stare blearily at the crumpled mess they’ve made. 

Oliver drags his hands over his face, settles them on his hips. “Might as well get it over with.”

“Or,” Elio counters. “We could just go to sleep and deal with it in the morning.”

“Where would we sleep?” Oliver gestures toward the bed. “The sofa’s fine for lounging, but I don’t think we’ll both be able to sleep there all night.”

Elio takes his wrist and tugs him toward the door. He flicks the bedroom light off on their way out and leads Oliver into his studio, gently nudging him toward the sofa. 

“We’re not both going to fit,” Oliver manages, a running joke around a gigantic yawn. Because he knows, by now, that of course they’ll fit. They’ve learned to fit. He drops onto the sofa anyway, curls up as best he can, face and knees pressed to the seatback, ass resting precariously close to the edge of the cushion. He leans back a bit, looks at Elio expectantly and holds his arm out, “Well?”

Elio smiles, climbing over him and sliding into the small space between Oliver and the back of the sofa. He tangles their legs together, pulls Oliver close, away from the edge. “We fit just fine,” he whispers. 

Oliver chuckles, leans in and presses a kiss to his nose. He reaches up and tugs the crocheted blanket from the back of the sofa, drapes it over them both and pulls it up over Elio’s shoulders. “I guess you’re right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Juilliard actually does have a competition somewhat similar to what Elio is doing, but I have no idea how long they've been running it, or whether it would have been happening in late 80s/early 90s when he'd have been there. I also won't pretend to know all the true ins and outs of said competition, so outside of its general existence, I'm making it up.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Career opportunities and family matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry so boring. For porn, please see previous chapter.

Elio’s shoes squeak against the linoleum floors of Philosophy Hall as he heads toward Oliver’s office. An older man that he recognizes as the department chair turns the corner and comes down the hall in his direction, smiling politely as they cross paths. Elio returns the smile in kind and continues on, finding the office door open and Oliver at his desk, hunched over a spread of pages. He watches for a moment, smiling as he spies the silent movement of Oliver’s lips as he reads. He knocks gently on the doorframe, smile growing wider when Oliver’s eyes snap up to meet his.

“I got out a bit early and thought I’d walk home with you,” Elio says. “But if you’re not ready to leave yet, I can go pick up dinner instead.”

“No, no, that sounds great, actually. Let me just—” Oliver shuffles the papers into a manila folder, stopping to look at a page or two before flipping the folder closed and sliding it into his briefcase. He pauses and puffs out a sigh. “Come in. Sit for a sec,” he motions for Elio take the chair in front of his desk.

Elio lifts his eyebrows and pushes away from the door, closing it behind him. “What’s up?” he asks, dropping into the seat.

“The Chair of the department was just here,” Oliver starts.

“Oh, Doctor Mercer, isn’t it?” Elio nods. “I passed him in the hallway.”

“Yeah,” Oliver smiles. “He was meant to be participating in an upcoming lecture series at Harvard, but he’s just learned that he’s going to need surgery and will have to bow out,” Oliver explains, offering Elio a pained smile. “He’s asked me to take his place.”

“Okay,” Elio pauses. “Is it— I mean, not to pry, but is he all right, or—”

“Nothing like that,” Oliver waves. “He’s been suffering from a hernia. Hopefully this procedure will help, but he expects to be recuperating for several weeks. A few of us will need to split time covering his courses and some of his work.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it’s nothing terribly serious. And this series sounds like a great opportunity. It's wonderful that he asked you,” Elio says, not hiding his confusion. “You don’t sound very happy about it, though.”

Oliver sighs. “The series overlaps with the Juilliard Carnegie Hall show. The last speaking engagement is that Saturday morning. I might not make it—”

“Stop,” Elio shakes his head. “Oliver, don’t do this to yourself.” He drops his bag on the floor and circles around the desk, turning Oliver’s chair and squatting down in front of him. He folds his arms over Oliver’s knees. “It has to work both ways. This is your career, and it’s important. I can’t— I’m not going to pretend that it won’t be upsetting if you’re not there, but I won’t be upset with _you_. Obviously, you wouldn’t have picked this timing. Besides, I’m playing four other shows later in the month. Hopefully you’ll be able to come to at least one of them.”

“All of them,” Oliver maintains. He reaches out, curling his fingers into Elio’s hair. “And I know you’re right. I do,” he shrugs. “I just really wanted to be there for this one. You’ve worked so hard for it.”

“Knowing that is enough. I promise,” Elio turns his head and kisses Oliver’s palm. “I’m proud of you,” his smile blooms into a bright grin.

Oliver shakes off the compliment, brows furrowing down. “It’s honestly not that big of a deal.”

“It is,” Elio stands and tugs Oliver to his feet. “Doctor Mercer could have asked anyone in the department,” he murmurs, looping his arms around Oliver’s waist. He hums when Oliver drapes his arms over his shoulders. “He specifically chose you. You’ve impressed him.”

“I suppose,” Oliver relents, biting back a smirk.

“So, we should probably celebrate,” Elio suggests, and presses his smiling face to Oliver’s chest.

Oliver chuckles. “Maybe without the champagne this time,” he hugs Elio closer. “We might have to buy a whole new mattress otherwise.”

—————

The next few weeks seem to pass in a rush. Between the Juilliard Orchestra and the quartet, Elio’s practice sessions take up most of his weeknights. He’s able to reschedule the majority of his student lessons to weekends, or early mornings on days when he doesn’t have class or meetings with his advisor, but there are a few that he has to refer to a friend. He’s hopeful that he can pick them up again once the concerts have passed.

He’s just come home from one of the Orchestra’s last few practice sessions and is sorting through the mail when he notices that the answering machine is blinking. Elio drops the mail on the side table and hits play, hoping it’s the quartet’s lead, Ben, finally calling with the updated setlist.

“_Hey, Elio…_”

“Fucking finally—” Elio mutters. He digs a notebook and pen out of his bag and starts jotting down the changes he’ll need to review before their next session. Ben’s message soon devolves into complaining about an ongoing argument he’s been having with the other musicians. Elio groans, realizing that he’s missed a bit of the set notes. He’s about to rewind the tape when the front door swings open.

“Hey,” he calls out.

Oliver pops his head around the corner and smiles. “Hey, didn’t realize you’d be home yet.”

“Yeah,” Elio rolls his eyes and nods his head toward the machine where Ben’s just signed off. “Trying to get my notes in order for practice,” he explains, as the machine clicks through to the next message.

“_Hello, Oliver. It’s mom._”

Elio whirls around and gapes at the machine, stunned by the cool tone of the voice filling the room. Before he can stop himself, he jabs his finger down on the pause button. The notion seems trivial and silly, but somehow a necessary stop-gap. He sets the notepad down and turns to find Oliver standing a few feet away from him, hands shoved deep in his pockets, a resigned look on his face as he gnaws at the inside of his cheek.

“Should I—?” Elio motions toward the hall, offering Oliver some privacy — the only thing he can think to do, aside from tearing the tape out of the machine altogether.

Oliver frowns. “No, it’s fine,” he sighs and settles himself on the arm of the sofa. “Play it, will you?”

Elio nods, hits the play button and walks over to perch beside him.

“_We haven’t heard from you in quite some time,_” Oliver’s mother continues, her voice taking on a note of sadness that Elio wants to believe is sincere. He presses his thigh against Oliver’s.

“_We’re all wondering if we’ll be seeing you for Passover. You know I’ve— we’ve—_” she starts and stops, seems to stumble over something before going on. “_Kim’s mentioned that you’re living with someone now. Do let me know if you plan to bring a friend. You know your father doesn’t entertain surprises very well._”

_A friend_, Elio mouths silently. His nose wrinkling at the word.

“_I’d like to be properly prepared and ensure I get enough catered in for the seder. And, of course… you understand that we won’t be able to accommodate you both spending the night. Nothing against your friend, dear. It’s just we’ll have so many guests in already. Hardly another bed to spare,_” she pauses then, and even though her presence is a mere recording, the silence is tense and awkward. She clears her throat and continues, “_I suppose if I don’t hear from you, we can assume you won’t be joining us. Your grandmother will be very upset, so I suggest you at least give her a call if you can find the time._”

There’s a bit of static after she hangs up before machine finally beeps and begins rewinding the tape. Oliver takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, a soft hiss between his teeth. Elio lays a tentative hand on his thigh. Palm up, an invitation. He’s relieved when Oliver’s fingers slide between his.

“Are you okay?”

“Nothing I’m not used to,” Oliver offers him a half-hearted grin.

“If you want to go, I can just have dinner with my parents. I don’t—”

“_No,_” Oliver nearly yells. He closes his eyes and drops his head. “Sorry. I’m— I’ve no intention of going somewhere that you’re not welcome. Hell, that I’m not even welcome. Not really. Not as I am.”

Elio squeezes his hand. “Are you going to call her back?”

“I’ll call my grandmother,” Oliver says, quietly. “Maybe I’ll visit her when I’m up at Harvard. The rest of them,” he shrugs.

“Okay,” Elio nudges his shoulder after he’s been quiet for a moment. “Well, my parents said they’ll probably stay for the holiday. Maybe we can do a seder here.”

“Here?” Oliver quirks a brow at him. “You mean you wanna cook?”

Elio wrinkles his nose. “I was thinking you could cook? And I’m sure my mom would wanna help. But sure,” he shrugs. “I can chop the carrots, onions, and celery.”

Oliver snorts, his shoulders trembling with a silent laughter. He peeks at Elio’s confused face and shakes his head.

“What?” Elio pokes him in the side.

“Carrots, onions, and celery?” Oliver chuckles.

Elio huffs and pokes him again. “I have to assume you need them for nearly everything, since those are the only things you ever ask me to help with in the kitchen,” he laughs. “Otherwise you’re just trying to make me feel better about being utterly useless in there.”

“I just thought you liked helping,” Oliver laughs, poking back until his fingers land in the ticklish spot just below Elio’s ribs.

“I do, but— st-stop, stop—” Elio squirms, giggling helplessly. “Does it have to be onions?” He grabs at Oliver’s hands, gives up and lurches to the side, digging his fingers into Oliver’s armpit instead. He kicks one leg off the floor to reach around Oliver’s back and loses his balance in the process.

Oliver lets out a loud yelp as they tumble backward onto the sofa, landing in a mess of flailing limbs and breathless laughter. Elio recovers faster, throws a leg over Oliver’s hips and straddles him. Sneaky fingers pinching and poking at his belly while Oliver gasps and curls in on himself, struggling to sit up and flip them over.

“Okay,” Oliver chokes out. “No more— no more—”

Elio grins and catches Oliver’s hands as they creep toward the hem of his shirt. “Ah, ah, ah,” he whispers, leaning forward and pinning Oliver’s wrists over his head. “No more wh-”

Oliver cuts him off, rolling up and kissing the words from his mouth. Elio’s hands slip down from Oliver’s wrists to his shoulders, weight shifting back just as Oliver bends his leg. Before either of them can stop it, they’re falling again. In a chorus of _oofs_ and _ows_, elbows, shoulders, knees, shins collide with one another, with the coffee table, the front of the sofa, and finally the floor.

They land much how they’d started. With a pitiful grunt, Elio slumps against Oliver’s chest. “I’ll get up in a minute,” he mumbles. “Did you hit your head?”

“No,” Oliver blinks up at the ceiling. He shifts slightly, wincing as he arches his back away from the floor. He tilts his hips and Elio gasps, jerking back and planting his palms on the floor beside Oliver’s head.

“Wh- are you hurt?” Oliver frowns, shifts again and feels Elio press back against him. “Ah,” he grins.

“Shut up,” Elio mumbles. He bites his lip and rolls his hips down slowly. “Are _you_ hurt?”

With a snort, Oliver wraps an arm around Elio’s waist and heaves them both off the floor. Elio immediately locks his arms around Oliver’s neck and chuckles. “I didn’t ask you to _prove_ you weren’t hurt,” he teases.

Oliver shuffles them forward, likes the feeling of Elio’s toes skimming over the tops of his feet as he walks. He pushes his nose against Elio’s cheek and smiles. “I’m not proving anything.”

—————

“You awake?”

Elio startles just slightly at the quiet slur of Oliver’s voice. He rolls his head to the side and tries to smile, but only manages a weak grimace. “What gave me away?”

“Nothin’ really,” Oliver sighs. “I’ve been in and out, myself.”

“Oh,” Elio hums, turning his face back to the ceiling. “Can’t you sleep?” He presses the ball of his left thumb into the joint of his right wrist, wincing at the tightness there when he rotates his hand, flexes his fingers.

Oliver reaches out and takes Elio’s right hand in both of his, sets both his thumbs at the base of Elio’s palm and puts a gentle pressure there, stroking up toward the joints of his knuckles. “Is it really bothering you?”

Elio shakes his head quickly. “No,” he assures. “I just don’t do this as often as I should. Especially now.”

Oliver nods. He links their fingers together and pushes Elio’s hand back and forth, makes a small rotation clockwise and back again. He slips his fingers down so his thumb covers the jump of Elio’s pulse.

“You didn’t answer me,” Elio says, watching the quiet twist of his hand in Oliver’s.

“No,” Oliver admits, reaching for Elio’s other hand. “I can’t sleep.”

“How come?” Elio scoots a bit closer and yawns.

Oliver’s shoulders lift slightly, a non-committal shrug. “Is this where it was bothering you the other day?” he asks, pressing delicately just below the knuckles of Elio’s left hand.

“Yeah,” Elio frowns. “Are you— is it work? Is everything okay?”

“I just have a lot on my mind,” Oliver squeezes Elio’s hand, brings it to his lips and kisses the pads of his fingers, his palm, the soft inside of his wrist. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

Elio frowns and slips his hand away. Rolling onto his side, he props himself up on his elbow and peers down into Oliver’s face. “Is there anything I can do?”

Oliver’s mouth curves into a smirk. “It wasn’t a come on,” he jokes.

“Stop,” Elio huffs, shoving at Oliver’s shoulder. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“It could’ve been,” Oliver reasons.

Elio purses his lips. “Fine, it could have, but it wasn’t. Not this time.”

“Come here,” Oliver smiles, tips his head just so.

“Oliver—”

“Shh, just— please?”

Elio sighs heavily, but relents. Oliver chuckles as Elio slings an arm and a leg over him and curls up against his chest. “You asked,” Elio reminds him.

“I did,” Oliver happily agrees. He winds his fingers into Elio’s hair. “I’m a little stressed about Harvard,” he confesses.

“Your speech is finished, isn’t it?”

Oliver nods. “It’s just stage fright, I suppose. I’ve spoken at these things before, but I’ve always felt like I was amongst my peers. These are Doctor Mercer’s peers. It’s a different audience.”

“Are they really different? Or just old?”

Oliver gently slaps his flank and snorts. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes, but I—” Elio’s brow creases as he lets out a small puff of frustration.

“What?” Oliver nudges him.

“Nothing. You’ll think I’m ridiculous.”

“I won’t,” Oliver prods again, pinching his hip. “What were you going to say?”

“I can’t imagine anyone not being impressed with you,” Elio admits. “I’ve sat in on your lectures, so I know you’re a fantastic speaker. You’re charismatic, you obviously love the topic, _and_ you know what you’re talking about. They should all be thrilled to have you there.”

“Well,” Oliver laughs. “As much as my ego would like to agree with you, we’ve already established that you have a slight bias. Perhaps more than slight.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that I’m right,” Elio grouses.

Oliver presses his lips to the top of Elio’s head and smiles. “Thank you,” he whispers.

They drift into comfortable silence. Fingers and hands passing softly over each other’s skin without intent. The slow rhythm of it, and the warmth of Elio against him, finally brings the weight of sleep, settling over Oliver with each deepening breath he takes. Each skim of Elio’s fingers over his chest. He tries to follow it, to let the tension drain from his limbs. Let himself tumble into whatever dream might be waiting. And then he feels it — that precarious razor’s edge he’s about to tip over. Feels himself rolling toward it and then suddenly he’s yanked away. Coming awake again with a sharp gasp and jolting Elio beside him.

“What?” Elio rasps, obviously on the verge of sleep himself. “What’s wrong?”

Oliver rubs at the bridge of his nose, presses his fingers to his eyelids until the hot spark of color flashes behind them. “Nothing,” he grumbles. “I can go sleep in the other room if I’m keeping you up,” he throws the blanket off and sits up.

Elio’s pulling him back before he can get one foot on the floor. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he nudges at Oliver’s hip until he rolls onto his side and they’re face to face. Elio tugs the blanket back over their shoulders. He reaches up and drags his fingers through Oliver’s hair, lets his nails gently scratch over his scalp until Oliver moans and closes his eyes. “Is there really nothing I can do?”

“I think you’re doing it,” Oliver murmurs. He opens his eyes, manages to hint at a smile. “I really don’t mind going in the other room.”

“I mind,” Elio whispers.

Oliver leans in, brushes a kiss over his forehead and lingers there. “I called my grandmother,” he breathes outs against Elio’s skin. Oliver feels Elio’s hand flex at his waist, fingers gently pinching into his flesh and releasing, smoothing over. “She wants me to come for dinner while I’m up in Boston.”

“That’s good,” Elio tilts back to find his eyes. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Oliver swallows around the knot slowly forming in his throat. Breathes in deep through his nose, exhales slowly. He feels Elio’s palm curve around the line of his jaw and turns his mouth toward it. “It’s been a long time,” he confesses quietly. “I’m just worried that she—” he shakes his head and rolls onto his back. “She’s the only person in my otherwise miserable family that ever seemed to give a shit about me.”

Elio grits his teeth to keep himself from spewing out the first things that come to his mind. He watches Oliver blink up at the ceiling, drag his hands over his face for the millionth time tonight. He can’t imagine what it feels like to have a family that doesn’t embrace him, love him, accept him, just as he is. Can’t imagine what it’s like to be regarded with the kind of cold indifference that Oliver’s parents seem to have for him. He has a sudden, longing ache for the comforting arms of his mother, the warm reassuring voice of his father. He wonders if they know how grateful he is for the unconditional support they’ve always given him in every part of his life. Wonders how he could even go about thanking them for it.

“You don’t have to tell her,” Elio finally says. “You can just visit and catch up. Tell her you’re happy. It wouldn’t be a lie.”

Oliver rolls back onto his side, tucks his arm up under the pillow. “A big part of me wants to do exactly that” he admits. “But I also I need to know if—” he stops himself, shakes his head.

“Do you know if she has any idea?” Elio asks quietly. “Have your parents mentioned anything?”

“It’s not the kind of thing they’d be likely to bring up,” Oliver snorts. “I don’t think it’ll come as a huge shock, though. Regardless, it’s not the surprise I’m concerned about, just the disappointment.”

Elio nods. “I know, I just—” he winds an arm around Oliver’s back and shifts until there’s no space left between them. “I don’t want you to get hurt,” he murmurs. “I wish I could be there with you.”

“You’re always with me,” Oliver whispers, dipping to kiss his shoulder.

Oliver’s next breath turns into a yawn and Elio takes the opportunity to roll onto his back. He tugs Oliver along, coaxing his head down to his chest.

Oliver sighs. “I don’t want to keep waking you up.”

“I’ll only follow you into the other room, so you might as well stay here,” Elio reasons. He traces his fingers gently over Oliver’s back, feels his body begin to go heavy and slack on top of him.

“I know,” Oliver slurs after few seconds.

“You’ll be okay here,” Elio whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize the ending here is a bit similar to the previous chapter, but the tone behind it is different, so um. Hopefully that makes sense to everyone. (Or at least everyone who is still reading this - I appreciate you guys!) Three chapters left to go!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date nights, work trips, and a phone call.

Elio curses as he runs from the kitchen into the living room, socks skidding dangerously across the floor. He grabs the phone on the fourth ring and gasps a breathless “Hello,” into the receiver.

“Everything okay?” Oliver sounds amused and concerned at the same time.

“Mmhmm,” Elio swallows, breathing through his nose. “I forgot to bring the cordless into the kitchen. Was just making a sandwich.”

“My god, you sound like you’ve just run a marathon.”

Elio scrubs his hand through his hair. “I waited too long to stop spreading the jam around and thought I was gonna miss the call.”

“You could have let the machine get it,” Oliver chuckles. “Should I call back in a few minutes?”

“No, no, it’s fine. Are you heading home soon?”

“Actually, I was wondering if you’re busy with practice or anything tonight.”

“Nope” Elio looks back toward the kitchen and scowls. “Just a messy peanut butter and jelly sandwich and maybe some reading. Why?”

“Do you feel like coming to meet me at The Met? It’s open late and I thought it might be nice.”

Elio hums, tongue slipping between his teeth as he smiles brightly. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

Oliver can’t help but smile himself. “I suppose I am.”

“Okay,” Elio agrees. “When should I be there?

“Can you get there in about an hour? I have a few things to finish up, but that should give me enough time.”

“That works,” Elio nods. “I’ll meet you out front.”

“Sounds good,” Oliver says. “I’ll see you soon.”

The moment after they’ve hung up, Elio looks down at the faded pair of Oliver’s sweatpants and worn t-shirt he’s wearing and realizes he should have asked whether or not he should get dressed up. He slinks back into the kitchen and finishes putting together his sandwich as quickly as possible, tossing things back into the fridge and washing the cutlery as he goes. He wolfs it down in a few quick bites and brushes the crumbs into the trash before running upstairs to change.

He pulls open the closet and stares at his small collection of ripped jeans and scuffed sneakers. Oliver’s crisp slacks and dress shirts present a stark contrast to the frayed edges of his own daily wardrobe. Elio pushes hangers aside in search of the things he wears for performances and committee reviews. He settles on a pair of black pants and a pinstriped button-down shirt, gets dressed quickly. Downstairs, he throws on his coat, checking his pockets for wallet, keys, and subway tokens before opening the door. He recoils at the burst of frigid air that hits him, nearly painful even at the end of March. He swings the door closed again and shrugs out of his coat as he runs back upstairs to grab sweater from the closet. It’s only as he’s tugging the soft black garment over his shirt, that he realizes the sweater is too big. Oliver’s then, not his. Elio looks down and shakes his head, doesn’t have time to worry about it now. He puts his coat back on and hurries out the door, quickly locking it behind him.

He gets to the museum a few minutes early and fidgets nervously at the base of the steps. He finds a half empty pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket and slips one between his lips, asks a nearby smoker to give him a light, and slouches against a ledge at the side of the building. He closes his eyes as the harsh tang of nicotine floats down his throat.

“Hey,” Oliver’s quiet murmur is sudden and much closer than he expects. It startles him upright, turning his head away to puff smoke out of his mouth.

“I didn’t know you were here,” Elio breathes.

“I got here about ten minutes early, so I went in to get the tickets,” Oliver waves a receipt with two museum buttons between his fingers. “I haven’t seen you smoke in weeks,” he says, swiping the butt from Elio’s hand and taking a quick drag.

Elio scuffs his shoe against the pavement. “Is it weird that I’m nervous?” He nods when Oliver tilts his head, amused. “It’s weird, right?”

“I guess it depends on why.”

“We don’t do this,” Elio shrugs, gesturing between them. He smirks. “I’m on a first date with someone who knows me inside and out. How can I possibly impress you?”

Oliver laughs, soft and incredibly fond. He stubs the cigarette out and tosses it into a nearby trashcan. Elio follows the swing of his arm, turning back in time to see him move in close and cast a careful glance around the plaza. It’s familiar. The sly skim of Oliver’s eyes, the cautious turn of his head.

“I would kiss you if I could,” Elio murmurs.

Oliver smiles, drapes both arms over his shoulders and pulls him in. To the crowd around them, it could be a just a hug, a simple greeting. Oliver’s lips touch the top of Elio’s ear as he whispers, “I’m glad you came.”

Elio shivers, clutches at Oliver’s back, and tips his face so their cheeks brush when he pulls away.

“Come on,” Oliver grins, nodding toward the stairs. “Let’s go inside.”

The museum is still somewhat crowded as they cross the lobby. Oliver turns, folding one of the museum’s metal buttons over the top of his lapel. He holds the second button toward Elio. “You should put this on,” he says. “Do you want to check your coat?”

Elio looks at the coat check line as he unbuttons his coat. “No, this should be fine.”

Eyes trailing over him, Oliver takes a step closer, dips his finger beneath the neck of Elio’s sweater. “Is this mine?”

“I didn’t have time to change after I realized,” Elio shrugs.

Oliver hums and folds the button carefully into place, his knuckle just barely grazes Elio’s throat. “I like it on you.”

Elio smiles and tips his head toward the entryway. “C’mon. Show me all your favorite spots.”

They head directly to the second floor, into the maze of rooms that make up the European Painting galleries. Oliver doesn’t try to lead the way. He’s eager to discover the works Elio naturally gravitates toward. They drift from room to room, together and not, each taking their time. As they pass open archways and turn corners, they catch each other’s eyes and smile. They’re studying a Courbet when Oliver subtly inches closer and links their pinkies together. The corner of Elio’s mouth twitches, but otherwise he gives nothing away. He tips his head, squints at the painting. Oliver licks his lips, dips his index finger into the cup of Elio’s palm and draws a circle. He waits for the quick draw of Elio’s breath before walking away.

Three rooms later, Oliver is sitting on a bench looking at _The Death of Socrates_ when Elio presses up behind him. Oliver’s back straightens as he watches the security guard walk the last leg of her lap around the empty gallery. As she turns and exits, Elio leans down and puts his lips to Oliver’s ear, sucks the lobe into his mouth and bites gently. Oliver gasps, one hand flailing out, almost locking behind Elio’s knee before he regains his composure and keeps his hands to himself. Elio huffs an amused breath against his skin and lets him go. Oliver watches as he turns on his heel and strides away, peeking over his shoulder with a cheeky grin before he exits the gallery.

Oliver looks for him in the next room and the one after. He feels exhilarated, heart thumping with anticipation any time he catches a passing glance of Elio’s coat as he turns a corner, the curl of his hair as he weaves through the crowd. He squeezes through a packed entryway into another room and feels a soft hand brush over his knuckles, but when he whips around, Elio is nowhere to be seen. This gallery has drawn a large crowd — several families and a tour group all clustering in to hear a museum guide speak. Despite his height, Oliver is unable to spot Elio in the throng. He listens for a few minutes and moves on, taking his time, paying his respects to the masters, lingering before the works he holds dear. Knowing at some point, he’ll turn a corner and Elio will be waiting for him.

By the time he gets to the last room, the guards have started letting visitors know that the museum will be closing in fifteen minutes. People hurry from frame to frame, skimming labels and glossing over paintings. Elio stands still among them, face tipped up at the gigantic Rubens that serves as the room’s centerpiece. He turns slightly as the crowd filters out, eyes landing on Oliver as he approaches.

Oliver steps into the space beside him, close enough that their shoulders brush. He glances back and notes the stragglers slowly making their way to the room’s only exit.

“Do we need to go?” Elio whispers, leaning into Oliver’s side.

Oliver turns his face to the painting, a faint smile on his lips. His brows knit for a brief moment and he shakes his head. “Not yet. There’s something I’d like to do.”

Elio grins. “Me, too, but I think we’ll have to wait until we get home.”

Oliver’s smile widens as he rolls his eyes. “Not that,” he laughs quietly.

The security guard passes behind them and nods. “Five more minutes, gentlemen. Please make your way to the exit.”

“Thank you,” Oliver watches the man continue on through the archway and into the next gallery over. He scans the room once more, noting that they’re the only ones left. When their eyes meet again, Elio is watching him with amused curiosity. Oliver swoops in and kisses him. It’s soft, and brief, and Oliver’s heart flutters in his chest the whole time and for moments afterward when Elio is beaming up at him with his lip caught between his teeth.

“Now we can go,” Oliver whispers.

—————

A few nights later, Oliver lays his carry-on and garment bag out on the bed and starts to pack. He pulls a grey suit out, lays it on top of the garment bag, and turns back to the closet.

“You should take the navy one, too,” Elio says, stretching out on the empty half of the bed. “Brings out your eyes.” He props his head up on his fist and taps the edge of Oliver’s bag with his bare toe.

“I’m hoping people focus on the content of my speech, not the color of my suit,” Oliver frowns as he sifts through his wardrobe. He finds his navy suit and lays it over the grey.

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t look good,” Elio nods at the suit. “Better.”

“Thanks,” Oliver grins. He continues to toss things onto the bed until eventually, Elio sits up on his knees and begins to neatly fold everything into the carry-on. He slides the suits into the garment bag and pulls the hangers through the top. “You don’t have to do that,” Oliver says, stuffing his shaving kit into the side of the carry-on.

Elio shrugs. “Keeps my mind off of things,” he takes the kit back out, rearranging the socks and briefs he’s already folded and placing it beside them.

“Like what?” Oliver flips the carry-on closed and zips it, moving it from the bed to the floor.

Elio finishes arranging the suits in Oliver’s garment bag, tucks his dress shirts in with them, and passes his hand over them to smooth the fabric. He shakes his head. “I’m being dramatic,” he mumbles, and flops back down on the bed with his arms flung out at his sides.

“You? Dramatic?” Oliver chuckles. He zips and folds the garment bag and set it on top of his carryon. He scrubs a hand through his hair, looking around the room with the inescapable feeling of having forgotten something. When he looks down at Elio sprawled out on the bedspread, it occurs to him that the forgotten something might be the one necessity he can’t bring along. He crawls onto the bed and settles between Elio’s thighs, pushes his hair back from his face and kisses him. “I’ll be back in time for your show on Saturday,” Oliver whispers.

“Don’t,” Elio shakes his head. “You shouldn’t say that.”

Oliver frowns. “Elio, I’ll be there.”

Elio sighs and cups Oliver’s cheeks. “Just don’t promise something you may not have control over,” he says. “This is your job and I understand if you can’t make it back in time.”

“All right, I won’t promise,” Oliver reasons. “But I’ve looked at all the timing, and I should be able to leave after my last engagement on Saturday morning.”

“Okay,” Elio relents. “If it works out, I’ll be thrilled but, let’s just not—”

“Fine, fine,” Oliver nods and kisses his cheek.

“I don’t like sleeping without you,” Elio says quietly. “I probably can’t even do it anymore.”

“Don’t be silly,” Oliver pulls back and smiles at him. “You managed without me for years, I’m sure you can handle a few days.”

Elio huffs and wriggles his hips, runs his foot along the back of Oliver’s thigh, pulls him closer. “They were very difficult years,” Elio forces his lips into a pout. “Maybe there’s something you could do to help me sleep while you’re gone. Give me something to think about.”

Oliver hums, considering Elio beneath him. “Or,” he counters, lightly trailing his finger down the bridge of Elio’s nose. “I could call you from my hotel at night,” his finger catches on Elio’s open lips, dips in and is met by the warm, wet tip of his tongue. “Tell you all the things we’d do if I were home,” he sucks in a breath as Elio’s cheeks hollow around him. Oliver curses and grinds his hips down, hands moving up to clutch at Elio’s hair. “I should probably wait, though,” he says, voice gone rough. “Save it for when you need it most,” he pushes up onto his knees, ignoring the ridiculous tent in his pants.

“Wait, no, no no,” Elio squawks, following and tugging at his arms until Oliver crawls back over him. “Tell me, tell me,” he kisses and licks over Oliver’s jaw, bites his earlobe, cups his cheeks. “You have to tell me now,” he insists.

“What will we talk about while I’m away?” Oliver teases him, kisses him, loves him.

“We’ll just do it again,” Elio breathes. He rolls his hips and they both gasp. “Or make up something else. Anything. Whatever you want.”

Oliver’s grin is wide and hungry as he sits back to pull his tee shirt over his head. Elio scrambles to follow his lead, shedding his shirt and reaching for the waistband of his sweatpants. Oliver quickly grabs his wrist, holding him still. “Slow down,” he murmurs.

Elio’s mouth drops open, brows knitting together slightly. “But I thought that-”

“There’s no rush,” Oliver bends, opens his mouth at the side of Elio’s ribcage, relishing the sharp inhale that it earns him. He slowly nips, kisses, sucks, his way to the other side. Shifting back, he pushes the band of Elio’s sweats down a bit lower, slides his hands around and in and cups the swell of his ass.

Elio presses down into his hands, rolls up against him, searching for friction where none is offered. “C’mon,” he moans.

Oliver slips his hands back out, rises to his knees, lets his nails scrape over Elio’s thighs as he drags his pants down his legs and tosses them aside. Elio sits up and wraps his arms around Oliver’s waist, kisses the spot above his navel and palms the bulge of his cock. “Please take these off,” he breathes into the jut of Oliver’s hip.

“I thought,” Oliver unwinds his arms, bites and kisses the heels of his hands. “You wanted me to tell you something,” he lets go and Elio drops heavily to the bed.

“I thought you were showing me,” Elio hooks his foot behind Oliver’s thigh, tries to pull him down, but Oliver only sways slightly in place. Elio stares at him for a moment, starts to speak and seems to rethink it, settling into whatever game they’re playing. He juts his chin out, folds his arms behind his head and waits.

Oliver shuffles back until his knees are between Elio’s feet. He reaches down, skimming his fingers over Elio’s shins, curling around the balls of his ankles and finally cupping his heels. A tiny, plaintive moan escapes Elio’s lips when Oliver lifts his feet and plants them in the center of his chest.

“I’d start at the bottom,” Oliver murmurs. He lifts Elio’s left foot and kisses his instep, lips curling into a sly grin when Elio sucks in a breath. He lingers there, opens his teeth around the tender curve of his arch and bites down, tightens his hold on Elio’s other foot when his hips roll forward, back bowing from the mattress. Oliver smiles, turns his face, stubble of his cheek dragging over the inside of Elio’s ankle. “Touch yourself,” he says, the corner of his lips leave a damp trail as he inches forward.

Elio nods, brings his palm to his mouth and licks a stripe up the center. He takes three fingers in and gets them wet, keeps his eyes fixed on Oliver’s when he pulls them away, feels the strand of saliva snap against his chin. Oliver’s hands move up, thumbs pressing into the backs of Elio’s knees and Elio wastes no more time, wraps his fist around his cock and strokes himself, drags his thumb over the head and groans.

“Stop,” Oliver’s voice is low, but firm, vibrating against the meat of Elio’s calf.

Elio takes a stuttering breath and holds it, slides his fist to the base of his cock and breathes out. Oliver licks his lips, drops lower and guides Elio’s ankles over his shoulders, breathes hot at the insides of his knees. He drags his mouth slowly down the back of Elio’s left thigh, licks the crease where it meets his ass, bites him and listens to his breath pick up. He feels Elio’s muscles tense, heels pressing into his shoulder blades. He pulls away, moves to Elio’s right thigh and stills, watches him breathe in deep and exhale, grip on his cock loosening as a bead of precum pearls at the head. He waits until Elio opens his eyes to say, “Go.”

Oliver starts over when Elio glides his fist back up and gasps. He follows a similar path, leaving kisses and bite marks in his wake. He watches Elio’s hips roll, watches the rhythmic pump of his hand over his dick. He keeps going after he licks the crease of right cheek and thigh, wraps his hand around Elio’s and slows him down, holds him down, says “Stop,” and grins wide against their linked knuckles when Elio keens into his own bicep. He kisses the backs of each of Elio’s fingers, mouths a slick trail up his shaft. “Elio,” he murmurs, letting the heat of his breath touch the sensitive spot just beneath the head. “Open your eyes.”

“Fuck,” Elio looks at him, at their joined hands, at Oliver’s lips, his tongue, touching-not-touching his dick. “Fuck,” he rasps out again. He shakes his head, “I need— I’m gonna—”

“I can wait,” Oliver hums.

Elio squirms. His legs slip from Oliver’s shoulders and fall open against the sheets. Oliver’s lips touch the head of his cock again, barely a whisper, but Elio hisses anyway, toes curling against Oliver’s calves. He clutches at his hair, lets go and reaches down, digs his nails into Oliver’s shoulder instead. “You’re gonna kill me,” he chuckles, manic and raw.

Shaking his head, Oliver pries Elio’s fingers from their vice-like grip and pins his wrist to the mattress. Elio sucks in a breath and holds it when Oliver flattens his tongue and licks him from root to tip, mouth sealing over him, his lips a tight, wet circle at the head of his cock. Elio’s breath pours out of him in a stuttering chant. “_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, f—_”

Oliver sucks hard, wrenching a guttural moan from Elio’s chest; his fists claw at the sheets and his hips thrust up, following the heat of Oliver’s mouth when he pulls away. “Fuck, Oliver. I need— please, fuck me,” he begs.

“But, I’m just getting started,” Oliver’s grin is slow and dirty. He crawls forward, drags his teeth gently over the soft pooch of Elio’s belly, turns his cheek and nuzzles the pale skin there. His own cock aches when he imagines how the rough of his beard will burn a trail in its wake — cross-crossing paths, tender pink and raised to the touch. He reaches down and shoves his sweatpants over his hips. “Yeah, get them off,” Elio mutters, hands immediately coming down to push and tug at the bunching fabric until they’re both kicking them away from Oliver’s ankles.

Elio gets a fist around Oliver’s cock and gives him a squeeze, wraps both legs around his waist and pulls him in, groans when he feels the blunt head nudge his crease. Oliver stutters out a litany of curses, laughing and pushing up on his elbows. He leans in, sucks Elio’s bottom lip into his mouth, bites down once before Elio surges up and kisses him, tongue sliding behind his teeth. Oliver slows them down again, rolls his hips against Elio’s until they’re moving together in a languid wave, until every other breath from Elio’s mouth ends on a tiny gasp, a warning mewl that he’s close, closer, closest.

Oliver slips two fingers into the space between their open lips, sucks them into his mouth, huffs when Elio tilts up to bite his knuckles. He pulls his hand away, reaches down and touches the slicked pads of his fingertips to Elio’s hole, kisses him as he presses inside. Elio body arches up hard against Oliver’s. “I’m gonna come,” he gasps, head thrown back against the pillow. He bites down on his bottom lip, hands scrambling at Oliver’s shoulders.

“Stop,” Oliver whispers, and pulls his fingers out, lifts his body away.

Elio howls his frustration at the ceiling, punching the mattress impatiently as Oliver leans over to reach into the nightstand drawer. He closes his eyes and slides his hands over himself. His chest and belly are sticky with sweat and saliva. He can already feel the patches of skin that will be raw in the morning from where Oliver’s beard brushed against him. He trails his fingertips back and forth over one tender spot near his ribs, hisses when the sensation lights up his nerve endings. He lets his other hand travel lower, passes it gently over his achingly hard length and whines, still too sensitive, too close. He digs his nails into his thigh and feels Oliver’s hand close around his wrist. When his eyes snap open, Oliver is settled between his knees, staring hungrily as he slowly pumps his slicked cock. “Oh, fuck,” Elio mutters. For a fleeting moment he wonders if he could come just from watching Oliver jerk off. Unwilling to wait any longer, Elio sits up and pushes Oliver’s hand out of the way, sparing him only a moment to react before climbing into his lap.

“Impatient,” Oliver laughs. He strokes his hands up the outsides of Elio’s thighs, skims around to palm his ass, squeezes his cheeks and slips his fingers in to circle the heat of his rim.

Elio nods and reaches back to line them up, gasping as he slowly sinks onto Oliver’s cock. “Finally,” he whispers. “Oh, god.” He crosses his ankles behind Oliver’s back, drapes one arm heavily over his left shoulder and rests his head on the other. He breathes deeply and stills.

Oliver tries to wait him out. Glides gentle fingers up and down his sweaty back, weaves through his curls and over the tops of his ears. Turns his face and presses kisses along the line of Elio’s neck, shoulder, bicep, into the crook of his elbow. All the while, Elio sighs happily against his skin, kisses him back one for one, doesn’t move other than the occasional tightening of his muscles. It makes Oliver hiss, one hand flying down to dig into Elio’s thigh to keep himself from rocking forward.

“Elio,” he finally whispers. “I need to move.”

“Mmm,” Elio hums, dragging his head up so his lips press to Oliver’s ear. “Not yet, not yet, just—” he hums again, clenching and rolling his hips.

Oliver groans, wraps his arms tight around Elio’s back and buries his face in his shoulder. Says, “_Elio—_”

“Will you think about this?” Elio murmurs, rocking his hips in a slow, steady circle. “On the plane? Or when you’re alone in your hotel?”

“Oh god,” Oliver grunts, His hips jerk and they both gasp, nails biting into skin and slowly letting go.

“Will you think about this when you’re giving your speech?” Elio grins, nibbles at Oliver’s ear, mouths along his jaw. “Will it turn you on?” he whispers against his bottom lip. “Get you hard?”

“Yeah,” Oliver darts his tongue out and licks into Elio’s mouth. He rocks his hips up again, and this time Elio nods, rocks back down to meet him.

“Faster,” Elio breathes. He shakes his head and smiles when Oliver laughs. “Much faster,” he winds his arms around Oliver’s shoulders, holds on tight as their hips pick up speed. Loves the obscene sounds of their bodies clapping together. Somewhere in his sex-ridden haze, Elio has the bizarre thought that it sounds like applause. He likes the idea of that.

It doesn’t last much longer — with both of them having been so close for so long. Elio wraps a hand around himself, gets three pumps of his fist before he’s biting down on Oliver’s shoulder and coming all over his stomach. Oliver follows him, crushing Elio into a bruising hug as his hips lose their rhythm and finally stop.

Elio sags heavily against Oliver’s chest. He’s hot and sticky, but too tired and content to be bothered with moving. He rests his cheek on Oliver’s shoulder, notices the angry red indentations, a jagged circle in the shape of his teeth. Elio frowns, rolls his head and opens his mouth around the mark he’s made, sucks gently at the smooth skin in the middle, then kisses along the raised grooves he’s left behind.

“What are you doing?” Oliver mumbles, nosing at the spot in front of his ear.

“I bit you,” Elio croaks. “Does it hurt?”

Oliver shakes his head. “Do you wanna shower?”

“No,” Elio sighs, dropping his head back to Oliver’s shoulder. “Not yet.”

“Okay,” Oliver yawns and shifts Elio against him, then back, crawling forward to lay them both down on the bed. He winces as his knees crack, and starts to roll onto his side, but Elio’s arms are still around him and they tighten against the motion, keeping Oliver mostly sprawled on top of him.

“Stay here,” he mutters sleepily. “Just for a bit.”

Oliver nods and relaxes, brushing his lips against Elio’s temple. “For a bit,” he agrees, sliding his hands beneath the pillow under Elio’s head.

—————

Elio wakes with his face pressed to the sleep-warm plain of Oliver’s back. He smiles, breathes out, likes the way Oliver’s skin dampens at the spot. Oliver leans into him and Elio pokes his tongue out, swipes at the salt of him. He sighs and nudges Oliver’s hip until he rolls onto his back.

“Hey,” Oliver’s voice is still a quiet, morning whisper.

Elio props himself up on his elbow, watches a yawn stretch through Oliver’s body, making his jaw pull tight, his back arch, his eyes water. Elio swoops forward, tastes the tears at the corners of his eyes before they can fall away. He mouths his way down the side of Oliver’s face, nips at his earlobe, drags his tongue down the slope of his nose. He plants his face into the warm pocket where neck and shoulder meet, brushes his cheek against the scratch of his beard, curves forward when Oliver’s hand curls into his hair.

“What are you doing?” Oliver mumbles, soft and amused.

Elio presses closer, slides lower, face to the crease of Oliver’s right armpit. He breathes in and hums, “Building up my reserves.” The sound vibrates against Oliver’s skin, makes him squirm.

“Goose,” Oliver snorts quietly. “It’s only a few days.”

“I like it when the sheets smell like—” Elio rubs his forehead along Oliver’s ribs, kisses his way down, down. He flattens his palm over Oliver’s half-hard cock, smiles at the shuddering intake of breath above him. He picks his head up, pushes his weight into his hands, taps gently at Oliver’s flanks. “Turn over.”

Oliver rolls his head to the side, peers down at him, lids lowered. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. “I leave for the airport at noon,” he croaks out.

“Don’t worry,” the corner of Elio’s mouth curves up. “You’ll come before noon.”

—————

“You have your tickets?”

Oliver pats his breast pocket, nods. “All set.”

Elio gives him a tight smile. “Good.”

“C’mere,” Oliver holds his arms out.

“Why does this feel like deja-vu?” Elio mumbles, burying his face in Oliver’s chest.

“Don’t,” Oliver chuckles, squeezing him close. He wonders how he’ll sleep without Elio beside him. “Don’t do that. It’s just a few days.”

“I know,” Elio’s breath tickles his neck. “I’ve gotten used to you being there when I wake up.”

Oliver kisses his hair. “I’ll call you every morning,” he offers with a grin. “First thing.”

Elio pulls away, swift, with a frown. “Were you not going to before?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to wake you—”

“Don’t be silly,” Elio hugs him again. “Wake me. And call before you go to sleep, as well.”

“Okay,” Oliver tugs gently at Elio’s hair until he turns his face up. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Oliver slides his hand down, cups Elio’s jaw and smooths a thumb over his cheek. Elio watches his face and smiles, mouth open, bright and beautiful — Oliver’s favorite smile. “How can I possibly miss you already?”

Elio shakes his head, bumps his forehead against Oliver’s chin. “You can’t say things like that. I won’t be able to let you go. Not even for four days.”

“You’ll have the sheets to keep you company while I’m gone,” Oliver says, burying his sly smirk in Elio’s neck as it turns into laughter.

Elio pinches at his ribs. “You’ll call?”

“As soon as I get to my hotel,” Oliver nods, pulls back and kisses him.

“Again,” Elio whispers, keeps his eyes closed.

Oliver leans in again, twice more. The fourth, fifth, sixth time it gets harder and harder to pull away. Elio finally plants hands on his shoulders and pushes back, eyes slowly blinking open. “If you don’t go now—”

“I know,” Oliver nods, a tiny smile on his lips. “I’ll call every morning,” he says, lips pressed to Elio’s forehead. “And every night.”

“Yes,” Elio nods. “Leave a message if I’m not home.”

“Okay,” Oliver grins. “And I’ll be there on Sat—”

Elio puts a finger to his lips, shakes his head. “You don’t have to.”

Oliver kisses his finger tip, gently moves it away. “I _know_. But I will.”

“Go,” Elio smiles, bites his lip. “Have a safe trip.”

“Thanks,” Oliver slings his carry-on over his shoulder and picks up his briefcase. He reaches out and wraps his arm around Elio’s waist once more, sweeps him in close, surprising a charmed giggle out of him. Oliver holds him there, eyes flitting over his face.

Elio cups his cheeks, kisses him, tips their foreheads together. “I know.”

—————

As he’s tucking his carry-on beneath the seat in front of him, a book of crosswords slips from the open side pocket and falls at Oliver’s feet. He frowns, having planned to read over his speech once more on the flight, he can’t remember having packed it. When he sits back up and flips it open, there’s a pen clipped to the first few pages. On the inside front cover is a note in the scratch of Elio’s hurried writing: _The speech is fine_.

Oliver smiles at Elio’s thoughtfulness. He unclips the pen and folds the cover back, deciding to let himself relax, at least for the short duration of the flight.

Aside from the cramped leg room, the trip is blissfully uneventful. When he arrives at his hotel, Oliver spots a few colleagues from his department milling about in the lobby. They immediately wave him over, curious for his thoughts on the weekend’s itinerary of events. As the group slowly make their way to the front desk, someone suggests they all reconvene for dinner and drinks once they’ve checked in and freshened up. Oliver welcomes the invitation, grateful for the camaraderie — they don’t often find time to connect outside the lecture hall. It reminds him that he really does enjoy the company of those he works with.

His room is clean and comfortable with a decent view of Cambridge Commons. Oliver spends a few moments leaning against the window sill, watching Boston’s rush hour pass by on the streets below. It’s too early for Elio to be home from class yet, but Oliver still calls to say he’s arrived safely. That he’ll call again later, as promised. That he misses the sound of Elio’s voice. He sighs and hangs up the phone before he lets himself get carried away.

—————

Elio is so focused on his paper that the shrill ringing actually makes him jump in the chair, sending his pen skidding across the page. He scrubs a hand over his face and gets up to grab the cordless he’d tossed on the sofa earlier.

“Hey,” Oliver says before Elio can speak. “I thought I told you not to wait up.”

Elio grins, can tell from the slow pour of his voice that Oliver’s just the right side of tipsy. “You may have thought about it, but probably realized it was a moot point,” he jokes. Oliver hums, a low contented sound from deep in his chest. It makes Elio ache not to feel it against his skin. “Sounds like the conference is off to a good start.”

“Oh,” Oliver laughs quietly. “Yeah, I went out for dinner with some colleagues and we, uh, possibly had a round too many.”

“I’m glad you’re having a good time,” Elio says, and means it.

“What are you up to?”

Elio sighs, turning and stretching out on the sofa. “I am sitting in your office and filling out paperwork for Columbia,” he says. “Or I was, anyway. Now I’ve given up and am sprawled out on your sofa instead.”

“My office, huh?”

“Mmm,” Elio closes his eyes at the knowing tone in Oliver’s voice. “Are you in bed?”

Oliver chuckles, a quiet puff of laughter that makes Elio smirk. “Yeah. Why aren’t you?”

“I’m fine where I am,” Elio teases.

“It’s not as comfortable,” Oliver pokes at him.

Elio hums, lets the sound stretch as he spreads his thighs, settles one foot on the floor and rests the other on the back of the sofa. “I don’t know,” he husks. “It feels okay to me. Besides, I took a long nap after you left this morning. Had a hard time going back to bed afterwards.”

“Oh yeah?” Oliver’s voice dips lower. “How hard?”

“Subtle,” Elio chuckles fondly. “Hard like—” he licks his lips. “Like an ache, but good. Like I could still feel you inside me and I wanted it to last.” From the other end of the line, he can hear the muffled sound of a belt buckle, the scratch of a zipper pulling apart. Oliver’s rough whisper, “_Fuck, keep going._”

Elio sucks his top lip into his mouth, lets it go with a wet sound. “You sure you don’t need to go to sleep? Big day tomorrow and all.”

“Tease,” Oliver laughs.

Elio lets out an exaggerated gasp. “You’re one to talk,” he chortles. “Are you hard?”

“Yeah,” Oliver sighs.

“Are you touching yourself?” Elio whispers.

There’s a brief stuttering of breath before Oliver murmurs another, “Yeah.”

“Good,” Elio mutters softly. “I wanna hear you.”

It doesn’t last long, though not for lack of trying. A kind of desperate exhaustion seeps in and soon they’re both panting, mumbling broken curses and spilling into their own fists. Elio reaches for the box of tissues on Oliver’s desk, wipes his hand and slumps back onto the sofa with a quiet _oof_.

“Why don’t you go to sleep?” Oliver asks.

“I’m stalling,” Elio says while stifling a yawn. “The bed feels too empty.”

Oliver’s quiet for a moment. “I don’t like sleeping without you, either,” he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True Facts: 
> 
> 1\. The date at The Met is one of my favorite parts of this story and I don't know why. 
> 
> 2\. I'd totally forgotten about the sexy times in this chapter until I was editing it. Hopefully it's not a forgettable read. 
> 
> 3\. Two more chapters to go!
> 
> 4\. I'm planning a few one-shots that will live within this same universe, so it'll be the end of this, but hopefully more to come in the near future. 
> 
> Up next: Oliver's grandma makes an appearance.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family matters.

Oliver pauses on the doorstep to rub his sweaty palms over his pant legs. He rings the bell and takes a deep breath, lets it out as the high-pitched yip and scamper of paws grows closer, eventually joined by the click-clack of heels and his grandmother’s _shush shush shush_. The door swings open and he’s immediately met with 25 pounds of Cocker Spaniel excitedly leaping up to greet him. “Hi, Stanley,” he laughs, squatting down to playfully scratch the dog behind his ears and pat his backside. He earns several sloppy licks to the chin for his efforts and finds he’s glad for the dog’s easy welcome.

When he rises to his feet, his grandmother is watching him fondly. “Oliver, my darling boy.”

“Hi bubbe,” Oliver smiles.

“Come down here, you’re much too high for me,” she waves at him until he bends low enough for her to grab his cheeks. She smacks loud kisses on one, then the other. “Oh, my sweet boy,” she coos, patting his face lovingly. “It’s been so long! Even Stanley’s beside himself!”

“I know, I know,” he chuckles, straightening up and shrugging out of his coat. “And I’m sorry.”

“Have you been to see your mother?”

Oliver shakes his head. “Only you,” he smiles and wonders if he manages to look even a little guilty. “It’s a short trip.”

His grandmother tilts her head, quirks her brow. “They’re your parents, Oliver,” she breathes a heavy sigh. “But I’ll save the lecture for later. I’m sure we have plenty to catch up on.”

“I can’t wait to hear what you’ve been up to,” he winks.

“Don’t be cheeky,” she wags a finger at him. “Are you staying for dinner? I can make something,” she motions for him to follow her toward the kitchen. “I just did the grocery shopping today.”

“How about we cook something together?” Oliver suggests.

“Oh, that’s a lovely idea,” she claps her hands, delighted. “Shall we do a meatloaf? That shouldn’t take very long, hmm?”

Oliver nods, “Sounds good.”

—————

They slip into pleasant conversation over dinner — mostly Oliver enjoys letting is grandmother talk. He doesn’t see his family often, and outside of whatever gossip Kim brings back from the holiday gatherings that she and her family attend, he’s generally out of the loop.

Stanley occasionally paws at his calf and Oliver sneaks little scraps off of his plate for him, getting a wet muzzle to his palm in return.

“Don’t let him fool you,” his grandmother warns. “You’d think this dog was starving from the way he begs. Stanley. Come here, Stanley.”

Stanley looks back and forth between the two of them, tongue lolling and tail swishing softly across the floor. Oliver opens his hands over the dog’s furry head and grins when he hefts up onto his hind quarters, sniffs at his fingers and drops back down. He gives a little whine and turns away.

“You see,” his grandmother laughs when Stanley plops himself at her feet and whines again. “Always hungry.”

“Maybe it’s because he knows you’ll always feed him if he asks,” Oliver suggests, watching as his grandmother lowers a rather large chunk of meatloaf beneath the table.

“Well,” she sighs. “I can’t let him suffer.”

Oliver snorts. “It’s amazing he’s not twenty pounds overweight.”

“We take daily constitutionals,” his grandmother nods and pats the dog’s head. “Don’t we, Stanley?” Stanley looks between them and seems to realize he’ll be getting no more snacks. He licks his chops and pads off into the kitchen in search of other avenues.

“Seems like it’s working out for you both, then,” Oliver smiles.

“Enough about me and Stanley, and everyone else, for that matter,” she waves at him. “I want to know how things are with you. I saw Kimberly and her husband at your parents’ house a few weeks ago. She looked about ready to burst. Such a shame things didn’t work out between the two of you.”

Oliver frowns. “What were you both doing there?”

“Oh, what was it now?” she pushes her plate away gently and purses her lips in thought. “It was someone’s birthday, wasn’t it? Why didn’t you come?”

“I wasn’t invited,” Oliver shrugs.

“That’s nonsense, you’re family. You don’t need an invitation.”

Oliver tries to mask the roll of his eyes. “I’m not sure I’d have been very welcome, anyway. It’s fine, really.”

His grandmother frowns, muttering something under her breath, but before Oliver can ask what it is, she shakes it off and looks up at him brightly. “Well, Kimberly tells me you’ve been seeing someone new,” she beams at him. “A nice Jewish girl, I hope.”

Oliver opens and closes his mouth. His immediate impulse is to lie. To maintain the status quo, and not ruin the most cherished relationship he has with anyone in his family. Possibly the only family relationship he has left. But there’s a gnawing ache in his gut at the thought of going on this way. He twists his lips to the side and leans back in his chair. His grandmother smiles, watching him patiently. “What if it isn’t a nice Jewish girl?” he asks quietly.

His grandmother’s brows lift. “A shiksa? Oy,” she shakes her head and shrugs. “Well, the most important thing is that you’re happy, darling. Though I promise you, it’s always easier when you’re with someone who understands where you come from. Is she—”

“No,” Oliver interrupts. Leaning in, he places a hand over hers and gently squeezes it. “That’s not what I was trying to say, bubbe. I’m sorry, this is—” he takes his hand away and drags it over his face. “This is difficult for me.”

“Well, what is it?” she reaches out to cup his cheek, turning his head toward hers. “Come now, bubbeleh, you’ve never been shy with me.”

“I know,” Oliver forces a smile and takes a deep breath. “The truth is that I’ve been living with someone,” he admits. “And we are very much in love.”

“Then I’m delighted to hear it, sweetheart,” she clasps her hands together. “I don’t understand why you’re so glum about the whole thing.”

Oliver nods, folds his lips in and steels himself. “I’m just… afraid of disappointing you.”

“Nonsense,” she waves at him. “Why should I be disappointed if you’re happy and in love?”

“Well, this person I’m in love with is very nice, and also Jewish, but,” Oliver swallows. “Not a girl.”

She’s silent for a few seconds, brows furrowed in confusion as she stares at him. “Oh,” she sits up straighter. “Oh, I see. So you’re—” she nods, squeezes his hand and lets it go. “Okay.”

“Is it?” he asks, timidly. “Okay?”

“Well, I suppose it’ll have to be, won’t it?” she suggests. “My understanding of these things, limited that they are, is that you can’t exactly change them.”

Her words are lighter than his father’s had been, somehow kinder than his mother’s. He doesn’t know how to process them, and so they sink like stones in Oliver’s gut. He swallows again, and the lump in his throat feels a harsh, immovable mass. “I can— would you like me to go?” He asks, but is already pushing back his chair and getting up.

“What?” she rises and puts a firm hand on his arm. With one look at his face, her mouth pulls into a disapproving slant. “_Oy, gevalt_,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Oliver, sit down. We’re not done chatting.”

“I’m not upset with you,” she clarifies the moment they’re back in their seats. “I imagine this news wasn’t met with much enthusiasm by your parents?”

“Oh sure,” Oliver bites out. “Dad threw a party.” He closes his eyes against the memory of that conversation, blinks and shakes his head. “He was furious, she was quiet. Now they both mostly act like it never happened.”

“Well, your father’s always been a schmuck,” she spits, angrily. “I held my tongue when you were younger, but you’re well past old enough to hear it from me now, and I don’t mind telling you — he’s a schmuck.”

Oliver can’t fight the tiny smirk that curls on his lips upon hearing these words from his grandmother’s mouth.

“But your mother, I—” her mouth pulls tight again. “I suppose that’s my fault. I thought I’d raised her better.”

“It’s not your fault,” Oliver says. “It’s nobody’s fault. They can’t change what they are, either.”

“Come now. I know you’re too smart for that,” she makes a dissatisfied _hmmph_ and taps her fingers on the tablecloth. “Do you remember my friend Doris?”

Oliver frowns. “She the one with all the dolls?”

“No, that was Sylvia,” she laughs. “I’m not surprised that you remember her. Used to drag you screaming into her house, you were so terrified of that cabinet.”

“They were creepy dolls!” Oliver exclaims, in defense of his younger self.

“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing you didn’t become friendly with her granddaughter, then. She’s inherited the lot of them,” she chuckles when Oliver gives an exaggerated shiver. “No, Doris Herschlag — you and her grandson, Michael, used to play together when your parents would bring you all to town for the summer.”

“Oh, right — little red head kid?” Oliver nods. “I remember him. I only vaguely remember Doris, but to be fair, I probably didn’t play with her as often,” he grins.

His grandmother gently slaps his hand, then reaches to cup and squeeze his chin. Her smile fades as she looks at him, turns into a watery frown until she sniffs and pulls her hand away to swipe beneath her eyes. “Michael passed away last year,” she finally says, and looks down at the table, smooths an invisible wrinkle in the cloth, over and over again.

Oliver watches the motion of his grandmother’s hands and suddenly feels overwhelmed by the tiny noises echoing around the house. The swish of her skin over the fabric, Stanley lapping at water in the kitchen, the tick of the giant clock standing in the hall. He feels like his heart is beating in his ears and wonders if she can hear it, too. It’s been years since he’s thought about Michael Herschlag. He’s just a little kid in Oliver’s memory. Red hair and freckles, running around in someone’s backyard.

“For the longest time, I’d been telling Doris _‘We should have lunch, get the children together. Oliver and Michael got on so well when they were little,’_” she weaves her hand in a circle, her voice bouncing into the high-pitched cadence Oliver associates with the story-time of his childhood. “I figured you both lived in the same city, maybe you might be able to introduce one another to some nice girls your own age,” she sniffs, shrugs a shoulder. “What did I know?” she mutters.

“I didn’t know Michael lived in Manhattan,” Oliver offers the only consolation he has, doubtful that it would have made a difference.

His grandmother shakes her head. “Doris would say _‘Yes, Millie, absolutely!’_, but then she was quicker and quicker to change the subject. She never talked about him when the grandchildren came up.”

Oliver understands, now, where the conversation is going. He’d immediately thought a car accident, an overdose. Some other unknown tragic event that would have abruptly ended Michael’s short life. But for some reason, inexplicably, perhaps, AIDS hadn’t been on that list. His throat feels dry and his glass has long been empty. He coughs, a loud, sharp noise that causes his grandmother to flinch just slightly. She looks at him, concerned, but he waves it away and reaches for the pitcher of water in the center of the table, refilling both their glasses and taking a sip. “Did Doris ever tell you that Michael was sick?”

“Toward the end,” she sighs. “They’d heard he was in the hospital and didn’t have very long. I couldn’t understand how… nobody, not a one of them, would go and see that boy,” she slaps the ball of her hand angrily against the table. “Sick as he was, days left to live, and the only thing his family could talk about was how embarrassing it all was. And then he was gone,” she grabs a napkin, dabs beneath her eyes and tosses it back down quickly. “Doris was just devastated. I’m not sure she’ll ever forgive herself. Frankly, I don’t know that she should.”

“For whatever it’s worth, I’m safe,” Oliver offers, quietly. “Elio and I… we both are. Safe. We’ve been tested, and we don’t—” he drags a hand over his face. This is not a conversation he’d envisioned having with his grandmother today. Possibly ever. “It’s just the two of us,” he clarifies, and hopes she understands his meaning.

She smiles at him. “Thank you, Oliver. I’m—” she huffs a out a tiny laugh and shakes her head. “I know this isn’t easy for you, and I am glad you’ve told me. I’m grateful that you’re healthy and happy.” She gets up and comes to stand beside his chair, cups both of his cheeks and kisses his forehead. “Perhaps it may have come across that way, but I didn’t tell you about Michael so that you’d give me a health report. No—” she pulls back, holding up a palm when he starts to interrupt. “I have seen more hatred and loss in my time than I care to remember. Life is short, and my family is the most precious thing I have. _You_ are one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received. You never have to worry about being turned away. Not from this house. Not from me. Do you understand?”

Oliver swallows a few times, but can’t make himself speak. He wraps his arms around her waist and tucks his head beneath her neck. “Thank you, bubbe,” he manages in a hoarse whisper.

“Oh,” she presses her mouth to the top of his head. “My sweet, sweet boy. You don’t have to thank me for that.” She kisses his hair, two loud smacks, and gently squeezes his shoulders until he pulls his head back and smiles up at her. She carefully swipes her thumbs beneath his eyes, just the way she did when he was a child, kisses his forehead, and steps away. Relieved, though still somewhat anxious, Oliver takes a sip of water and clears his throat as his grandmother slides back into her seat. She watches him for a moment, then tilts her head curiously. “Elio sounds like an Italian name,” she says, pointedly. “Are you sure he’s a nice Jewish boy?”

Oliver snorts and quickly covers his mouth, but can’t stop the laugh that bubbles its way out of him. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, takes a breath and tries to calm himself.

“Well, I don’t understand what’s so funny,” his grandmother complains, though her lips quirk up at the corners. “I’m only asking because you told me he was.”

“I know,” Oliver nods, grinning widely at her. “I promise you, he is definitely Jewish. His last name is Perlman. His father is American and his mother is Italian and French.”

She nods. “I see. And how did you meet? What does he do for a living?”

Oliver laughs again, softer this time. “He’s a very gifted pianist and is about to finish his Masters at Juilliard. He’s actually the soloist in a concert at Carnegie Hall with their orchestra this weekend,” he says proudly. “And we met during the summer I spent in Italy.”

“Carnegie Hall, that’s quite impressive. Mazel Tov,” she lifts a brow and nods.

“I’ll be sure to pass it on,” Oliver smiles.

“You visited Italy— what was it? Six? Almost seven years ago? You’ve known him for some time already.”

“We only reconnected a few months ago.”

“Perlman, did you say?” she taps her knuckle on the table, thinking.

Oliver nods, swallows. Waits.

“Wasn’t that the name of the professor you stayed w—” she gasps lightly and presses her fingers to her lips. “Oh, _Oliver_. Not the professor’s boy!”

“He was seventeen when we met,” Oliver feels his cheeks flush hotly. “I was 24. And, if I’m not mistaken, that’s almost exactly the same age you and zayde were when you went on your first date.”

“Well,” she huffs, shoots him a look that aims for reproach but already has too much amusement lingering below the surface. “My parents were very well aware of everything I was doing in my day.”

“Oh, his parents have always been very supportive,” Oliver grins.

She shakes her head, but smiles. “I assume, of course, that you’re bringing him to seder to meet the family.”

Oliver grimaces and sucks in a hard breath. “No. Mom asked if I was coming, but has made it clear that any _guests_ would not be for the best.”

“Best for who?” she nearly shouts, smacking her palm on the table. “Honestly, this nonsense has to end. _I’ll_ speak with your mother and tell her that—”

“Bubbe,” Oliver reaches out for her hand. “I appreciate it, really I do. But it’s fine. Elio’s parents will be in town for his concert and we decided to have a seder at home with them. We’re even cooking.”

“Yes, but what about _your_ family, sweetheart?” she squeezes his hand.

Oliver smiles. “They are my family. But I’d love for you to meet them. I’m not sure how long the Perlman’s will be in town, but if you’d like to meet Elio—”

“Oh, yes! That’s a much better idea, darling. I’ll come to New York for seder,” she puts a firm hand on Oliver’s wrist. “If you’ll have me, that is. I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re always welcome,” Oliver assures her. “But I think mom’s head would explode if you told her you’d decided to go to New York and spend the high holidays with me.”

“Well,” she snorts. “She’ll just have to accept my decision. I’m fully capable of choosing where I’d like to spend my time and who I’d like to spend it with.”

“Oh, I know that you are,” Oliver chuckles. “I just don’t want to make things worse, that’s all. She’ll think you’re choosing sides. She will,” he insists when she starts to object. “And I don’t want to cause you any aggravation. Besides, who’d take care of Stanley?”

“After the holidays, then,” she nods. “You’ll both come here. I’ll cook for you. A proper meal, this time. And I have plenty of room, so no hotels. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes,” Oliver grins. “Definitely.”

—————

“Oh, let us put you in a taxi, _tesoro_. Please,” Annella coos, petting Elio’s hair. “It’s late and it’ll put my mind at ease.”

“Maman, you say that every time,” Elio laughs. “The subway’s only a block away.”

“I know, I know, but—”

“But what?” Samuel sweeps through the restaurant door to join them on the sidewalk. “What did I miss?”

“Just mom trying to put me into taxis,” Elio grins. 

“Ah, so the usual! Are you sure you won’t accept?”

Elio shakes his head. “It’s not necessary, papa, but thank you both.”

“Well, let us walk with you to the subway, at least. We can pick up our taxi from there,” Annella suggests. She links her arm through Elio’s and steers them down the sidewalk. 

Samuel falls in line with them, draping a heavy arm over Elio’s shoulders and hugging him briefly. “Don’t look so glum,” he teases. “We won’t tell anyone you’re spending a Friday evening out with your parents if you won’t.”

Elio rolls his eyes. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I’m just preoccupied.”

“Come now, darling,” Annella turns them around the corner. “You’ve got a lot to be excited about, hmm?”

“I know,” Elio agrees, nodding heavily. “I do.”

“I’m sure Oliver will try his best to be there,” Samuel adds with an easy smile. “All you can do is get a good night’s sleep and play beautifully tomorrow.”

Elio can’t help but to roll his eyes again, fighting back a smile as he does. “I know,” he admits. “I’ll go to bed as soon as I get home.”

Samuel snorts loudly. “We all know that isn’t true, but I do appreciate the effort,” he chuckles. 

“Shortly after, then,” Elio offers, stopping them next to the subway entrance. “I’m expecting a call.”

“Ahh, well, then you shouldn’t let us keep you,” Samuel grins. 

“You’re not,” Elio insists. “It’s just a short ride.”

Annella pulls him in for a hug, cupping the back of his head and holding him close. As they part, she kisses both of Elio’s cheeks and smiles. “Good night, my darling. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Elio nods. “I’m glad you’re both here.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Samuel beams at him. “Give Oliver our best when you speak with him. And tell him we’re looking forward to dinner!”

“Yes, and please find out if there’s anything he’d like me to pick up,” Annella adds. 

“I will,” Elio promises, leaning in to hug her. “I’ll let you know.”

Samuel embraces him warmly, presses a kiss to the side of his head. “Sleep,” he says, a gentle reminder as he lets Elio go.

“Si, papa,” he ducks forward to kiss each of their cheeks once more. “Good night,” he waves, and heads down the subway stairs.

It’s a quick ride home from the restaurant, and before he can distract himself with anything else, Elio peels off his clothes and heads for the shower. He’s crawling into bed when the phone rings. Elio sighs happily and lets himself fall forward against the pillow, pulling the phone off the bedside table and tugging the comforter over his head. 

“Hi,” he breathes into the receiver. 

“Hey,” Oliver’s voice is a low rumble. Elio closes his eyes and pictures the soft plump of his lips, smiling and content. “Did I wake you?”

“No, no,” Elio shakes his head. “I just got home from dinner a little while ago. My parents say ‘hello,’ and my mother wants to know if she should bring anything for the seder.”

Oliver chuckles. “I’ll talk to her about it tomorrow.”

Elio hums. “How was your day?”

“Surprising,” Oliver admits. “I saw my grandmother—”

“Oh! How’d it go?” Elio presses the phone hard to his ear, like it’ll somehow bring Oliver closer. “Are you okay?”

“I was about to tell you,” Oliver laughs softly. 

“Sorry,” Elio apologizes. “I wish—” he puffs out a loud sigh. “Sorry.”

“You know I feel the same way,” Oliver murmurs. “And I’m fine — it went really well. She wants to meet you.”

“I’d love to,” Elio replies quickly. “I mean, if you’d want that. If you’d want me to.”

“I do,” Oliver smiles at Elio’s eagerness. Imagines him sitting at his grandmother’s table, charming her with the sweet, shy curve of his lips. His clever turn of phrase. “I want that very much. She actually wanted to come to the seder, but—”

“She should,” Elio insists. 

“Another time, yes,” Oliver explains. “Right now, it would put too much of a strain on her relationship with my mother, and I don’t want to do that to either of them. I told her that we’d come to Boston and visit soon, though, if that’s all right with you.”

“Yes,” Elio nods against the receiver. “Definitely.”

“We can pick a weekend that works for both of us,” Oliver suggests. “Talk about it more when I’m home.”

“Okay,” Elio says, but it comes out muffled around a jaw cracking yawn. 

“I should let you get to sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

“No-no-no, not yet,” Elio whispers, curling down further beneath the blanket. “Talk to me.”

Oliver laughs. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Anything. World news, Boston traffic, competitive philosophy professors, Heraclitus,” Elio sighs. “Just talk.”

“How are the sheets treating you?”

Elio snorts quietly. “They’re not as warm and considerate as you are.”

“I should hope not,” Oliver smirks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go. I can't believe it's almost over!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A performance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around, guys. <3

There’s a frantic blur of people running around backstage. Every now and again the buzz of a string or clink of a cymbal echoes through the air. The din of the crowd beyond the curtain makes its own kind of music. Elio doesn’t get truly nervous before shows anymore — years of performing for all manner of guests at home, at school, at clubs, have helped with that. Tonight, though, he feels a slight edge. A thrumming in his veins, as he stands just off stage, a few feet from the piano where he’ll soon take his seat.

A cluster of orchestra members gather nearby, conferring with one another on their tuning, the setlist, discussing the crowd outside. Elio turns and gives them a smile. They nod at him, wave and smile, turn back to their instruments, readying themselves for the show. He’s noticed that only the stage manager seems to be talking to him tonight. Everyone else appears to be giving him space he hasn’t asked for. It makes sense, he supposes, he’s not really one of them — just a short-term guest. He hopes they’re happy with his performance this evening.

Elio turns back to the stage. He looks around, gently slips his fingers into the curtain and moves it to the side. His eyes widen at the fully packed auditorium of Carnegie Hall before him. He can’t help the tiny gasp that escapes him as he takes it in. He scans the crowd, knows Oliver had planned on coming directly from the airport, _Might be just down to the wire, but I’ll be there_, he’d said on the phone that morning.

“_There’ll be other shows_,” Elio had reminded him, determined not to sound dejected at the thought. At the possibility.

“_I’ll be there_,” Oliver promised.

Elio jumps when a stagehand passes by and yells, “Curtains up in ten!”

There’s a flurry of motion as lingering orchestra members take their positions, the occasional soft hum of strings being tested, papers turning on music stands. The chatter of the audience continues as Elio looks out over the crowd. His eyes find the aisle seat, parquet section, nine rows back from the stage. Empty. Beside it, his parents sit angled toward one another, heads bowed in conversation. Elio watches his mother tip her face to his father’s shoulder, laughing at something he’s said. He smiles, suddenly overwhelmed with how glad he is that they’ve come. He spares another glance at the empty seat, at the open double doors at the back of the theater, and moves away from the curtain. He straightens his suit. Tells himself it’ll be fine. Oliver will be there for his next performances. He forces himself to smile, swallows the lump in his throat. Takes a deep breath.

The curtain is drawn open to a wave of applause which grows as the conductor takes the stage, giving a bow to the audience. Elio watches from the wings, feels the excited tremble of butterflies start to play in his belly. He steps back, finds a seat where he can close his eyes and listen to the beginning of the orchestra’s program.

It seems like no time at all has passed before the stage manager is tapping his shoulder, letting him know that he has two minutes. He gets up, brushes his hands over his suit again, straightens his jacket, pulls at his cuffs. The stage manager catches his attention, motions for him to follow her, and positions him at a curtain opening just off the wings. She holds up a finger to let him know he has one minute, and hurries off. Elio leans forward, tries to peek out into the audience again, but from this position, he can’t see beyond the music stands. He steps back, watches the conductor lead the orchestra through the end of the piece and listens to the crowd applaud.

Then the conductor is turning to introduce the concerto, and Elio, with it. One more deep breath and Elio walks onto the stage. As the audience applauds his entry, Elio bows to the orchestra and conductor. He turns to face the crowd, squinting into the bright lights as he bows once more. A hush falls over the auditorium when takes his seat at the bench. He looks toward the conductor and nods. There’s a quiet murmur as the orchestra shifts into place.

Elio breathes in, curls his fingers over the keys, feels the smooth of the ivory against his skin, the give of the pedal beneath his foot, and lets the room around him fall away. He imagines himself at home in Italy, the soft chatter of his family outside on the patio, the sun-filled room and the piano he grew up with. An audience of one. He gives himself over to the music, loves how the hum of the strings wraps around him, how the brass and winds seem to tremor beneath him, sometimes whisper soft, and then a sudden, violent burst of sound. He pours his heart and soul into each measure of each movement he plays, and by the time he’s struck the final note, he feels as though he’s waking from a trance.

He closes his eyes, letting the moment wash over him before rising to his feet. The audience cheers as he and the conductor bow toward one another and then toward the crowd. They exit the stage together, someone pushes a glass of water into Elio’s hand and claps him on the back. He barely has a moment to drink before he’s being spun back around, the conductor waving him on as they return to the stage for a dizzying second round of bows and applause.

Backstage, he’s shuffled between handshakes and more claps on the shoulder, a few hugs once the orchestra joins them. He smiles, congratulates people as they pass, and slowly makes his way to the small dressing room that’s been set aside for him. He stutters in the doorway, worried he’s stumbled into someone else’s space, but a quick check confirms that it’s still his room. Elio closes the door behind him and falls back against it.

The room has been filled with flowers since he’d used it earlier. With a few grand exceptions, the bouquets are mostly modest. Small arrangements wrapped in cellophane with little notes attached or slipped between petals and stems. As he flips through them, he’s overwhelmed to see that the mix of names includes the parents of some of his students, a host of professors from Juilliard, some going all the way back to his freshman year, musicians he’s played gigs with around the city, friends, former roommates, a stunning arrangement from Marzia, and even a group of his friends from back home in Italy. He starts gathering the cards together into a pile and setting them on the vanity table.

He’s digging through one of the larger bouquets when there’s a knock at the door. Helen pokes her head in, pushes the door open wide and pulls him into a tight hug. “Flawless,” she sings into his ear. “Flawless performance. I’m so proud of you, Elio.”

“Thanks, Helen,” he says, voice muffled by her shoulder. “It means a lot to me.”

She pulls back and pats his cheek. “Still much more to come,” she reminds him.

Elio nods, blinking slowly, “I know.”

“Enjoy it,” she reminds him, looking pointedly around the room.

He nods, again. “I will. I am,” he promises. “It’s… a lot.”

She grins and squeezes his hand. “Take your time. You’ve earned it.” She leans in to kiss his cheeks, hugging him once more before departing to congratulate the other musicians.

He leaves the door open, welcoming in a small parade of professors and some members of the Juilliard orchestra, nodding, shaking hands, thanking them all for their support. Most of it barely registers through the haze of adrenaline and post show jitters. When his parents come through the door, a whirl of laughter and proud, smiling faces, Elio finally feels himself start to teeter over the edge he’s been skirting.

“Oh, _tesoro_,” Annella swipes her thumbs at the corners of his eyes and kisses each one, gently. “We’re so proud of you, darling.”

Samuel wraps his arms around both of them, squeezing until they all laugh together. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I do, papa,” Elio croaks against his mother’s shoulder.

“Good,” Samuel pats him softly on the back, kisses Annella’s hair and takes a deep breath. “Now, who’s hungry?”

“Sami,” Annella swats at him, but laughs all the same. “Darling, shall we help you bring the flowers back to your apartment first?”

Elio turns to survey the room. “I’m not sure how we’d even get them there,” he wrinkles his nose. “I thought maybe just the cards.”

“Well, surely you can keep a few,” his mother suggests, picking up one of the larger bouquets. “They’re so lovely.”

“We can hire a taxi,” Samuel gathers some of the smaller, but more colorful arrangements and tucks them into the crook of his arm. “I’m sure we can manage.”

“Yeah,” Elio nods. “Let me just clean up and get my things together. I’ll meet you out front in the lobby.”

“All right, darling,” Annella tugs him close and kisses the side of his head, carding her fingers through his hair. She smiles at him for a moment — a soft almost secretive look that Elio can’t quite decipher. When he asks, she only shakes her head, smiling still. She kisses him once more and steps away, squeezing Samuel’s hand before she exits.

“What was that?” Elio asks his father once they’re left alone.

“Oh,” Sami waves a hand toward the door. “We’re just feeling a bit emotional. Don’t worry, though,” he claps Elio on the shoulder. “We’re waiting until we get to the restaurant to officially embarrass you.”

Elio rolls his eyes and laughs. “Thank you, again, for coming.”

“We wouldn’t have missed it,” Sami’s grin wobbles. He sets the flowers down and steps forward to pull Elio into a tight hug. “I’m so terribly proud of you,” he whispers. Elio can’t bring himself to say anything, so he only hugs back as tight as he can. “Okay,” Sami sniffs, pulling himself together. He grabs the flowers and straightens his glasses, beams a big smile in Elio’s direction as he steps through the doorway. “Shall I close this?”

“Please,” Elio says. “I’m just gonna—” he gestures toward the bathroom.

Samuel nods. “Take your time. We’ll see you out front.”

In the small bathroom attached to his dressing room, Elio quickly downs two glasses of cold water from a cup by the sink, and splashes some water on his face afterwards. When he walks back into the main room, Oliver is waiting for him. Elio sucks in a breath, a delighted hiccup of laughter stuttering back out as he throws himself forward, flinging his arms around Oliver’s waist.

Oliver stumbles back slightly with a soft _oof_ when Elio crashes into him. He wraps his arms around Elio’s shoulders and drops a kiss to the top of his head, turns his cheek to drag over the soft fall of his curls and whispers, “Hi.”

“I didn’t think I’d see you until later,” Elio breathes against his chest. “Did you just get here?”

“No,” Oliver shakes his head, pulling away with a gentle squeeze to Elio’s biceps. “I was in my seat by the time you walked on stage.”

“W—” Elio gapes up at him. “Why didn’t my parents didn’t say anything?”

“I dashed out of the theater as soon as you left the stage— wait, wait—” Oliver chuckles, putting his hand up when Elio lurches forward, when he starts to interrupt. Oliver dips in, cups the back of his head, murmurs, “Not like that,” and kisses him. Once, twice. Three times and Elio’s leaning in heavily, moaning and planting two hands on the balls of Oliver’s shoulders to stop himself.

“Why?” Elio mutters, dragging his mouth away. He pushes his face into the hollow of Oliver’s throat and closes his eyes as warm arms fall around him.

Oliver takes a moment to hold him, to breathe deep and feel Elio’s chest expand against his own. He shifts his weight, rocking them gently, and wonders if it’s healthy to have missed him so much after only a few days a part. “I was already running so late,” he finally says, smiling when Elio’s fists dig into the small of his back. He untangles himself to reach for his coat, huffing quietly at Elio’s small noise of disappointment. “I couldn’t stop for this on my way here, so I ran to the corner before coming back to see you. Your parents realized you didn’t know. They thought it would be a nice surprise,” Oliver explains, holding up a single, long-stemmed rose. He watches the adorably stunned look settle on Elio’s face and pauses to commit it to memory. “I’m not sure if this will be any easier to tote around than all these bouquets,” he notes, rolling the stem between his fingers.

Elio smiles, open-mouthed and giddy as he takes the rose and holds it briefly to his lips. He breathes in the soft scent, closes his eyes, slides his index finger along the stem and finds a thorn. He presses lightly against it until he winces. Oliver’s hand finds his, slips between the spike and the reddened pad of his skin. Elio shakes his head. “I was just—”

“I know,” Oliver murmurs, and brings Elio’s hand to his lips, kisses the tips of his fingers. “But you don’t have to.”

“You were here the whole time,” Elio says.

Oliver swipes a thumb over Elio’s cheek and thinks about three days without him. About six years without him. He thinks about the healthy amount of time to miss someone and decides it’s not important. It’s not what matters. He pulls Elio close, kisses the corner of his lips and smiles. “I’m right where I should be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little bittersweet to have hit the end of this story after having spent so much time writing and editing it. I can't even believe I've been posting it for 17-weeks already!
> 
> I've mentioned this a few times, but in case anyone has missed it — I do have at least a few one-shots already in the works that will take place within this same series (kind of like [Kol Nidre](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16092059) does). So, although this particular story is over, I hope to revisit Elio and Oliver's life together here sometime soon. I'll probably share bits and pieces in Sunday Six posts over on my [Tumblr](http://sheisraging.tumblr.com/tagged/my-sunday-six) as I get the stories more filled out. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who stuck with this all the way through to the end. SO much thanks to all of you who left me lovely comments on each chapter, or any chapter, or kudos or anything at all. I tried to respond to everything - and will for this final one, as well. 
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> So much thanks to [@thereisalwaysroom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereisalwaysroom/pseuds/thereisalwaysroom) for the endless sprints, beta, and encouragement. Couldn't have finished this without you! <3
> 
> Much thanks, as well, to [ghostcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostcat/pseuds/Ghostcat), [provenance](https://provenance.tumblr.com/), [barthelme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barthelme/pseuds/barthelme), and everyone else who's sprinted with me and helped push me along. :)
> 
> Super thanks to [thatteenagefeeling](https://thatteenagefeeling.tumblr.com/) for the translations!


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